


A Study in Steel

by Joe_Reaves



Series: The Steampunk Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, Episode Related, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joe_Reaves/pseuds/Joe_Reaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A war-weary doctor suffering from wounds both physical and mental meets a consulting detective. A legend begins.</p><p>Watson has a very real fear of steam-driven machines, can he face his fear and help Holmes triumph over a deadly adversary?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Steel

I could feel drops of perspiration trickling slowly down my face and neck, making their way past the constricting collar of my uniform and down my back, carving ravines through the Afghan dust which seemed to coat every inch of my skin. The low thunder of the artillery rumbled through the air and even the ground itself, providing a never-ending, pounding wall of sound upon which higher pitched cracks of the Martini-Henry rifles could write their lethal story, like bright white chalk against the dull grey of a slate. The screams of horses and men as they fell under the hail of bullets, both our and our enemy's, provided a deadly counterpoint and I wondered if I would ever find myself accustomed to the sounds and smells of flesh being torn asunder as we fought over this distant patch of ground that no one back home could even find on a map.

I tried to ignore the chaos around me as I hurriedly stitched the man in front of me back together before he bled to death in the dirt. We were retreating; I didn't need an official order to be able to tell that. I had no idea if this chaos counted as an ordered retreat or a rout and it made not a jot of difference to me either way. Men were scrambling past me, heading towards the wide ravine which divided us from one of the native hamlets, but I could not move. I just needed another minute to make sure my patient would be able to survive the retreat. My job was to patch him up just enough that he would live until I could perform the surgery he needed.

When I had trained at Netley, I had seen photographs of battlefield hospitals in the American Civil War and had thought them crude and unsanitary, but right now such a facility sounded like a miracle. Instead of a rough wooden table as an operating theatre, under canvass, somewhere behind the front lines, I was operating in the dirt amidst the chaos of the battle itself, if you could call what I was doing right now 'operating'. I felt less like a university educated doctor and more like a medieval barber surgeon at the moment.

My orderly waited until I had cut the thread and then hauled me to my feet as my patient was scooped up by another burly soldier and unceremoniously dumped in a cart.

"Careful," I warned. "If you toss him around like a side of meat you'll open the wound and I'll have to start again."

"Not right now, you won't, Sir," my orderly warned, pushing me towards the ravine while my tools were thrown willy nilly into the cart alongside my patient. "If we don't go now, we're not going at all. They have us surrounded on three sides and those buggers want to make it four."

He pointed along the ravine we intended to cross and I gasped. Crawling along the dusty floor of the wide ravine, heading incessantly towards the scrappy column of fleeing soldiers were three steam-powered machines. They clanked and groaned in an unholy racket, billowing great clouds of smoke behind them like railway engines, but there were no tracks for them to follow. Instead they seemed to move on rollers, as if laying and then removing their own railway line as they moved.

Along with the remnants of the 66th Foot, I scrambled down the steep side of the ravine, helping the men carrying the wagon until we reached the level ground of the ravine again. Once down, we had two choices: we could follow the ravine back towards Mahmudabad, the small village we had come through on our way to the battle, or we could climb back up the other side and hope to find enough cover in the village of Khik to wait for rescue.

I could see that many of the soldiers had chosen the second option, no doubt fearful that the infernal steam-powered monsters that were even now closing upon our ragtag body of men would catch us before we could make it to the relative safety of Mahmudabad. However, the wagons that were being used to transport our injured would never make it up the rocky escarpment. It had been a miracle we had managed to get them down in the first place, to have to battle gravity as well in getting them back up, especially while under fire, would be impossible.

My patients were in those wagons, so, with a heavy heart, I chose to stay with them and hope that we could outrun the enemy machines. We moved as quickly as we could, but the men had had barely any sleep the previous night as we had been ordered to strike camp before midnight and had marched all morning to reach this corner of hell. The temperatures were far in excess of 100 degrees and the battle had raged for hours before we had been forced to make our retreat. Under such circumstances it was, perhaps, a miracle that the men were moving at all, but fear is a great motivator and those infernal machines were providing a far greater incentive than any officer could ever have managed.

The village was almost in sight, but the rumble and clatter of the machines had been coming ever closer and there was no possible way for the entire company to outrun them. Our priority had to be given to getting the wounded away and back to the baggage train, which had been left in the village.

As a doctor, I had not expected to have to give orders except as to the care of my patients, but I was the only officer still on his feet with this particular group of men. Sticking two of my fingers in my mouth I gave a shrill whistle and as soon as I had their attention, I began issuing commands. We would need to dig in, as much as we could within the confines of the ravine, and slow the machines so that our fellow soldiers could reach safety. The orders I gave left a bitter taste in my mouth as I had no doubt that I was ordering one group of men to their deaths to spare another group. What right had I to decide this? To order one man to give up his life that another may live?

And yet not one man hesitated to follow my commands.

Those who had been chosen to accompany the wagons gave up their ammunition and weapons to those of us who would stay and win them the time they needed to make it to safety. If we could not buy them enough time, the remains of the column was doomed anyway, so the guns would do them no good, but they might make the difference for us.

The machines were impervious to bullets it seemed, being made of metal, and for a while we were more in danger of falling to ricochets than dying at the hands of the enemy, but a lucky shot from one of the men showed us that even these fearsome monsters had their weaknesses. There were joins between the plates of armour which could be found by well aimed bullets. While the forward momentum was provided by tracks there were also giant limbs, which seemed to be used both for balance and to smash away any obstacles that might be in their way, and the joints in those were also vulnerable. On top of that there were gun slits through which the crew were firing at us and through which a well aimed grenade could be thrown. Two of my men were set to filling empty bottles with powder, scraps of metal and nails and even bullet casings. All it then needed was a fuse made from scraps of whatever we could find and it would explode with a satisfying bang when hurled at the enemy.

In this fashion we managed to destroy one of the infernal engines, the final blow being dealt by one of our home made grenades rattling its way through the gun slot and exploding inside the hull. In such a confined space the explosion must have been deafening for the crew and the shrapnel, deadly. The machine ground to a halt and my men cheered delightedly, but we had no time to celebrate its demise as the other continued its inexorable crawl towards us.

By now we were at close quarters with the machine and I could see that the rocks behind which we had taken cover would be no match for the terrible limbs which were already beginning to reduce them to nothing more than rubble. More slits were opened on the front of the beast and yet more guns began to emerge until it was bristling with weaponry.

Between the storm of bullets ensuing from our nemesis and our own bullets rebounding from its metal hide and the rock walls around us, there was no place to hide. All around me I could see men falling, being shredded by the lethal fusillade. I stood to order the survivors to fall back; we had done all we could to win our fellows the time they needed. But the words never came. A burning pain engulfed me as something pierced my shoulder and spun me around, tossing me against the wall of the ravine like a rag doll. A black haze began to descend upon me as I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness and then, just before the world finally disappeared, another screaming pain shot through my thigh.

I tried to throw myself out of the way of the machine before it could crush me under its tracks and instead found myself staring at the floorboards of my hotel bedroom. I groaned as my leg began to throb miserably. It seemed that whilst in the clutches of the latest in a countless number of nightmares, I had thrown myself out of the narrow bed and only awoken when I hit the floor. I could only hope that this time I had refrained from crying out in my sleep and disturbing the occupants of the neighbouring rooms. No matter how sympathetic the manager was to my condition, it had been made very clear to me that if I continued to disturb the other guests I would be required to leave.

The thought of facing more infernal machines, even if they were only in my memory, was abhorrent to me, so instead I pulled out one of my leather-bound journals and began to write.

My army pension provided an income sufficient to live on, but London is an expensive city and I developed some extravagant tastes when I was here as a student, which I had found were coming back to me since my return. There had not been much time for diversions in my time at Netley and while there was plenty of opportunity for gambling with my fellow officers on my journey to the North West Frontier, it had been centred around card games, at which I do not, I am sad to say, particularly excel, so I had mostly refrained from indulging. This meant that I had savings sufficient to pay for those expenses which I could not afford from my pension, but eventually they would begin to run low. Thus I had decided to supplement my income by trying my hand at the type of stories of adventure and derring do, which seemed to appeal to the reading masses in London.

The agent I had engaged had suggested on more than one occasion that I could garner a higher price for my fiction if I would only add some incredible engines or machines of war to the stories, but as yet I could not bring myself to turn the monsters of my nightmares into simple fictional devices. Perhaps if my savings dwindled far enough that would provide the incentive I needed, but for now I was content with the sums that I was earning in this fashion.

However, even if my nocturnal terrors had not yet cost me my place here, I knew I could not stay this type of accommodation indefinitely. If I was to try and rebuild my life in this great metropolis, rather than moving to the country as one of my doctors had suggested, then I would need a permanent residence and, eventually, somewhere I could practice medicine. The doctors I had seen had been torn between whether I would recover better in the quiet, calm of the countryside or the bustle of the city. The majority of them, and not so coincidentally the same number who looked at me with barely contained pity and predicted that I would inevitably need to live the life of an invalid, battling constant periods of illness as a result of my bout of enteric fever, half-out of my mind on the opiates they prescribed for the pain in my shoulder and leg, felt that the soothing atmosphere of the countryside would be in my best interests. The latest physician I had engaged, however, agreed with my own diagnosis, which was that a return to as normal a life as I could manage would keep my spirits high and therefore reduce my vulnerability to a recurrence of the fever. I would never be a surgeon again, not in any real sense. My shoulder would not recover enough to allow me the steady hands I needed for surgery, but I would be able to conduct a more general practice.

Thus it was that I had a nebulous plan for the day in my head when I finally dressed and descended the stairs to the main dining room. Fortunately, my room was on the first floor or I would have had to rely on the lift rather than taking the stairs and I mentally added that to my list of requirements for my prospective lodgings. No matter if they were the most wonderful rooms in the world, I would not take lodgings above the first floor, lift or no lift. I could not abide having to act like a cripple in my own home.

I dined well, as is my wont, and then settled my hat on my head and, with my trusty cane in my hand, headed out into the inclement weather to begin my day. I would first deposit my latest story with my agent and then would spend the morning drawing up a list of prospective lodgings. After that I would dine back at my hotel. The afternoon's activities would depend on my success in the morning. If I could visit the lodgings I had deemed appropriate then so much the better, but if not I knew where there was a fight taking place that afternoon and the noise and smell, not to mention the potential gambling opportunities, would provide a nice counterpoint to what, I hoped, would be a productive morning.

I succeeded in clinging to my good humour until just after midday, despite the paucity of appropriate lodgings in my price range. After changing my clothing I made my slow and careful way back down to the dining room again and was about to ask for my customary table when I heard my name being called from the bar.

Turning to look I spotted young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Bart's, waving frantically at me. He was a hearty fellow and while we hadn't been particular cronies, it was wonderful to see a familiar face, so I waved back with pleasure and made my way across the room to join him, leaning heavily on my cane as I had somewhat overexerted myself that morning.

"Good God, man, what have you been doing to yourself?" he said by way of greeting. "You're thin as a lath and brown as a nut and you look like you're barely holding yourself up!"

I smiled ruefully. Tact and discretion had never been virtues Stamford was especially attached to. I gave a brief description of my short-lived military career, carefully glossing over the infernal machines that had been at the disposal of our enemies By the time I had explained about the illness that had laid me low both in India and immediately after my return, we had moved from the bar to the dining room and were tucking into our meal with gusto. I finished up by an explanation of the task that had occupied my morning and my disgust at the lack of affordable lodging in London.

"You're the second person to tell me that today," Stamford remarked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "There's a fellow I know at the hospital. Rum sort of chap. I'm not sure what he's working towards, if anything, but you'll find him in the laboratory at any time of day or night when the mood takes him. At other times you won't see hide nor hair of him for weeks on end. Just this morning he was in there labouring over some foul concoction of his own devising and bemoaning the fact that he had his eye on a set of rooms in Baker Street, but he could not afford them without finding some other fellow to share them with him."

"Great Scott, that's a stroke of luck. You must introduce us, Stamford." I exclaimed delightedly.

"Not so fast, Watson. You should meet him and see what you think of him first. He's a decidedly queer fellow."

I waved off Stamford's objections. "Unless he's actually stark raving mad, I shan't care," I declared firmly. "I have had my fill of hotels and hospitals and temporary billets. I should very much like a chance to move somewhere more permanent at the soonest opportunity."

"Well, don't blame me if you're the one who ends up in an asylum," Stamford muttered.

I threw my hands up. "Good grief, you were the one who brought him up and now you're trying to warn me off as if you think he's an axe murderer or something."

Stamford chuckled and looked up from his dinner, waving his fork around for emphasis as he spoke. "I'm sure he isn't. He's just… odd and you were never exactly renowned for your patience, old chap. He seems to flit from one interest to another on a whim in a quest for knowledge, but his interests are patchy to say the least. The things he's interested in – anatomy, chemistry – those he could talk about for hours and he's an entertaining speaker, I'll give him that. I've learnt a lot from listening to his impromptu lectures. On the other hand, the things that interest him less, popular literature, theatre, sports, those things he knows nothing of and won't even pretend an interest in. I'm sure he has manners, and yet half the time he seems to feel they're a waste of his time. He can be arrogant, abrupt, even rude, but I think, if he liked you, he'd also be a pretty loyal ally. He seems the type."

He shrugged and grinned a little self-consciously. "He fascinates me, as you can tell. I just can't work out what makes him tick and it drives me potty. Anyway, it's a moot point for now. He was raving about how he's having to cut his latest experiment short because he has another engagement this afternoon and there's no one else in the laboratory with the competence to record his results for him." He grinned again. "Like I said, arrogant and rude. He'll be around tomorrow I expect, if you really want to try and go in with him on those rooms."

I leaned back in my chair and observed Stamford thoughtfully. His unexpected soliloquy about this fellow had intrigued me and I definitely wanted to meet him now, whether he proved to be a suitable companion or not. "Shall we meet up tomorrow morning then?" I asked. "I really can't afford to be too picky about where I live right now, so unless he's actually insane, I think your friend and his rooms in Baker Street sound ideal."

I wasn't in anywhere near as precarious a financial position as I was implying, but it would distract Stamford from my unseemly interest in this 'queer fellow' of his.

I should admit at this point that other than my gambling, which I wouldn't truly describe as a vice as I had always known where to draw the line with that particular hobby, my true vice is curiosity. I cannot resist a mystery; something which has found me in trouble on more than one occasion. Since the Battle, however, I had found very little to pique my curiosity. This fellow that Stamford had described had reawakened that part of me and I truly felt that, as long as he wasn't dangerous, and Stamford seemed fairly certain that he wasn't, living with such an enigma would do me the power of good. At least it would stop my forced physical inactivity leading to my brain atrophying as well.

I paid for our meal, waving off Stamford's attempts to pay for his own part of it, and arranged to meet him on the next morning, when we should journey to Bart's and see if he could find this fellow and arrange to see the rooms he had his eye on. In the mean time, I had a free afternoon, and I determined to follow through with my tentative plans from this morning, and seek out a fight on which to make a wager or two. After all, bumping into Stamford as I had, had turned out to be a stroke of fortune, and it would be as well to take advantage of my luck before it inevitably abandoned me.

A quick trip back to my room to change into some slightly less respectable clothing and to swap my usual walking cane for something a little sturdier in case I had occasion to defend myself or, more likely, my money, and I was ready to leave. I settled my hat firmly on my head and left the hotel whistling softly under my breath. I ignored the queue for the steam-powered omnibus and instead headed for the cab rank further down the road. To my mind there was something steadier and more reliable about a good old-fashioned horse-drawn cab than the noisy, dirty, steam-driven vehicles which had begun to make their appearances on London's streets. Still, even the omnibuses were better than the bone-shakers I'd seen some of the police whizzing around on.

I chose to have the driver drop me a little way away from my eventual destination. Fighting was, after all, still illegal, and while the police generally turned a blind eye, to the point where the Fancy made no attempts to hide their activities even when a particularly popular bout had been scheduled, I thought that I should exercise at least a modicum of discretion. Paying the driver off I made my way along the street towards the establishment where this afternoon's entertainment had been arranged.

There were no big names fighting today, merely a combination of new, untested fighters, and older has-beens who hadn't managed to hold on to enough of their winnings to retire at the height of their abilities. There were also a couple of more successful fighters who would be opening the floor to any challengers as a way of making some quick money. I was hoping to spot a challenger with talent and clean up by betting against the favourite in one of those bouts. The rest of the fights would be more evenly matched so while I fully intended to gamble on them, I would be lucky to come out at the end of the day with any significant winnings. A carefully timed wager on an outsider though … that had potential.

The pub itself was no different from a hundred others in London. It had definitely seen better days – the furniture was shabby and the paint was peeling from the walls. I suspect that if I were here for a drink I would be sorely disappointed. The beer would no doubt be terrible. I waved the barmaid off, something else about this place that had seen better days if I'm honest... I'm sure she was very pretty once upon a time, but that looked to be at least a decade and a lot of gin ago.

Making my way through the bar room, I headed for the larger back room where the action took place. It was guarded by a large man who looked like he'd been in more than a few brawls in his life and was eager to increase the number. With ease of practice I slipped him the requisite bribe and he stepped to one side, allowing me to pass.

Once I was through the door the atmosphere almost overwhelmed me, but I couldn't help the smile that curved my lips in satisfaction. I had grown to know places like this very well when I was a student and, to be honest, I sometimes felt more at home here than in polite society. The noise was almost tangible, a kind of dull roar that wrapped itself around you, and the smell was … unbelievable. The air had a haze to it from smoke, and the smell of the tobacco mixed with beer and good honest sweat. I nodded. Yes, I had come to the right place.

I made my way through the crowd until I found a position from which I could watch the action and make my bets without having to move too much. My leg was starting to ache and I was leaning on my cane rather heavily, so I manoeuvred my way through the throng of people until I could lean on the wooden rails surrounding the makeshift ring.

I wasn't impressed with the fight that was in progress. The fighters were totally mismatched and there was nothing sporting about watching one fellow get beaten into a bloody pulp by someone bigger, stronger, and heavier than himself. I sighed and turned to look around the room instead, hoping that the action would become more interesting later on.

The crowd were a mixed group. Obviously the majority of them were working class and from the local area, but there were quite a few people who stood out, as I myself presumably did. Their clothing was inconspicuous, but of a better quality than the others and they held themselves differently. Yes, I was definitely not the only outsider who had been drawn here by the prospect of a sporting afternoon.

The fight was soon over than the unfortunate loser was carried from the ring. From the atmosphere around me, I could tell that something big was about to happen, and I leant eagerly over the edge of the ring.

The reactions of my fellow spectators told me that the fighter who had just walked into the ring was well known and very popular. Unfortunately, I had been away from London for two years now and I had never heard of him. A few pointed questions to the man next to me elicited the information that he had recently won one of the prize belts and had proclaimed himself the best fighter in England. Now he was going to test that claim by challenging all comers to try and defeat him.

I refrained from expressing my opinion on that idea since he seemed to have so many supporters in the room. But I didn't really think challenging a group of, presumably, rank amateurs was going to prove anything. He wasn't going to appear to be a great fighter by defeating people who were no challenge and if any of them did manage to beat him, he was going to lose his reputation in one stroke. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised though. The fight would no doubt earn both he and his manager some easy money and publicity and if he were an intelligent man he wouldn't be making his living this way in the first place.

The first three challenges went precisely as I had expected and the odds in favour of the champion were so paltry that I didn't feel it was worth the effort to even put any money on the outcome. However, the fourth man to enter the ring was different. He had an air of confidence about him, although he certainly didn't look like an experienced fighter. He was slender although certainly not fragile, but next to the champion he looked almost boyish and underdeveloped. Looking more closely I could see that he was certainly an adult, but with none of the muscles that the earlier challengers had had. I doubted his job involved physical labour, but he certainly kept himself fit. There was not a scrap of excess weight on him anywhere and I had a sudden flash of insight that told me he might be stronger than he looked. His face too was not one of an habitual brawler. The aquiline nose showed no sign of ever having been broken, the cheekbones were even and equally intact, and his ears had none of the cauliflowering common in fighters and rugby players.

I found myself flushing slightly when his piercing eyes met mine for a moment, embarrassed at having been caught examining him so closely, even though there had been nothing inappropriate about my attention. The confidence in his gaze was matched by a sardonic amusement at my reaction and I considered betting against him out of nothing more than spite. Fortunately, I recovered from the impulse before I could make the wager and instead I laid almost everything I had on the newcomer at odds which almost made me giddy with anticipation. If this strange fighter could defeat the champion I would be dining out for a month on my winnings. I might even be able to stretch to a night or two at the opera or the theatre if I could find something playing that appealed to me.

For the first minute of the fight I couldn't help but wonder if I had backed the wrong man. The champion couldn't seem to lay a hand on his slender opponent as the man gracefully danced out of the way of every clumsy swing, but dancing can't win a fight. Eventually the challenger would tire and then it would surely only be a matter of time before the champion landed one of his blows and laid the man out. But still the challenger seemed content to dance around and merely watch his opponent swing at him.

The crowd were beginning to become discontented and were booing the fight. They had come here, after all, to watch a fight, preferably with copious amounts of bloodshed, and the challenger's talented display of footwork wasn't going to satisfy them.

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to support myself with my cane as my thigh began to twitch, uncomfortable at being held in one position for so long. The challenger appeared to glance over in my direction, as if he'd noticed my movement, which had to be my imagination as a second ago his entire attention had been focussed on his opponent. He was probably just shaking a drop of sweat out of his face.

Looking away from the champion had cost him though and the larger man landed a heavy blow to his abdomen causing him to double over. He dodged the follow up blow though and danced backwards, catching his breath, before looking in my direction once more. This time he winked deliberately and then darted forwards, peppering his opponent with a flurry of quick, sharp jabs to his torso. He then brought his hand up and slammed it into the underside of the champion's chin before slamming his other fist into the side of his face, stunning him.

The champion staggered backwards a step and shook his head trying to clear it, but the challenger wasn't going to give him the time he needed. A swift kick to the side of his knee made him lose his balance and before he could fall the slender man hit him once more in the face, dropping him to the ground so heavily that I could imagine that I felt the floor shake slightly.

He stepped back, saluted the crowd jauntily and then ran lightly to the side of the ring, leaping the railing with one graceful bound. I lost sight of him as he disappeared into the crowd and so instead turned to the task of collecting my winnings. When I had done so I turned to leave, noticing that the champion was still on the ground with his second trying to revive him. I looked around once more for the challenger, but he had gone.

Shrugging, I headed for the exit. I had won enough money to let me live very comfortably for the next week or so and I tried always to make it my practice to walk away while I was ahead. I whistled under my breath as I limped towards the main road where I would be able to hail another cab. I had watched the most fascinating fight I had seen in a long time, won a handsome sum of money, and tomorrow I would meet Stamford's 'queer fellow' and see about finding myself somewhere to live. All in all, today had been a good day.

*^*^*^*

Once again I had been torn from my sleep by a nightmare, but this time I had managed to banish the demons of memory and snatch another few hours sleep. Consequently, I had managed to hold on to the optimistic mood of the previous day and a surfeit of good feeling which had me wishing the chambermaid a good morning with such a jaunty grin that she blushed. With one of the hotel's lavish breakfasts inside me as well, I was whistling happily and swinging my cane slightly as I waited for Stamford to arrive.

He took one look at me and shook his head in mock admonition. "Either you spent yesterday in one of those dens of iniquity that you always seemed able to find, hazarding your income on some game of chance, or you found yourself an accommodating young lady last night. I demand you tell me which." He grinned wickedly. "Especially as my life has been heartily devoid of anything but work in the last few weeks and I need to take my pleasures vicariously right now."

I chuckled. "Stamford, you know that if I had persuaded one of the fairer sex to surrender to me I would not be boasting about it. A gentleman never does. However, your first guess was nearer the mark and I made a considerable sum yesterday gambling on a fight. And I don't recall you disapproving of those 'dens of iniquity' when we were at Bart's. In fact if my memory serves me correctly, you spent more time in them than I did."

"True, true." He took my arm familiarly. "Now are you going to be all right to walk to the hospital or should I hail us a cab?"

I frowned slightly at the reminder of my injury but quickly pushed down the irritation since I knew he was only trying to be considerate. "I think I should enjoy the walk on this fine morning, Stamford. I need only take care that I do not overdo things."

We strolled along the streets to the hospital. It wasn't too far from where I was staying as I had deliberately chosen a hotel in the area of London that I knew best.

Once inside the hospital I took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar smell of carbolic soap. I looked around and smiled. "Do you know, Stamford, I think I've missed this old place."

He chuckled. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that rot. And to think, I envied you for getting out of this place and doing something more adventurous." He gestured for me to go first. "I don't suppose I need to tell you how to find the laboratories. He'll be in the chemistry lab, the largest one, working on one of his experiments, or at least that's where he was yesterday and I don't expect him to be working on anything different until he's conquered whatever problem it is he's set himself. He's not the type to leave a job half-done."

I led the way along the familiar, slightly shabby corridors to the laboratories and then waited, letting Stamford enter first. After all, he was the one who would need to make the introductions.

Stamford opened the door and I followed him inside, looking around curiously. The laboratory was empty except for one man, leaning over a test tube. From behind I could see that he was tall and slim. His clothing wasn't that of a student. Indeed, if I hadn't already known the little I did about him, I would have taken him for a member of the faculty.

As I watched he shook the test tube and then leapt to his feet in an abrupt, but somehow still graceful, movement. "Eureka!"

I couldn't keep in the laugh at that exclamation. "I believe Archimedes was wearing a trifle less when he made his great discovery," I remarked dryly.

He spun around and I almost gasped; it was the fascinating boxer from the previous afternoon. Well, now I knew what his previous engagement had been. I saw a similar recognition flicker across his face, before it was buried beneath a smug grin. He marched towards us, brandishing his test tube.

"I have here a discovery which will revolutionise the criminal justice system," he declared. "Why this test will make fingerprints look like a children's game."

I raised an eyebrow as I looked at the clear fluid in the test tube and the brownish residue that was floating around in it as he agitated it in triumph. "I have to say, old chap, it's not overly impressive right now. Why don't you elaborate on your great discovery, presuming your modesty will allow of course."

He laughed delightedly and dragged me towards the bench at which he had been working when we came in, letting Stamford follow us or not as he desired. I looked at him over my shoulder, wondering if I was going to need rescuing, but since he was almost bent double in laughter I deemed that if I did prove to need help, I would have to provide it myself.

"Generally, I prefer to be introduced to someone before I allow them to drag me around," I said pointedly.

He let go of my sleeve and looked slightly abashed at that. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service," he said, holding his hand out for me to shake.

Taking it I shook it firmly. "Dr Watson. Now please carry on. I have to admit, I am eager to discover what exactly it is you're studying here."

Looking around I could identify several of the chemicals on the table, but I could not conceive of any process which would involve them all.

He handed me a beaker containing what appeared to be more of the clear fluid from the test tube he was still waving around. "We'll try it on a larger scale this time and you'll see how useful it will be." Filling another beaker with water from the tap he grabbed my other hand, nearly clouting both of us with the cane I was holding in it, and before I could object stuck a pin in my finger, squeezing the wound until it spilled a couple of drops into the beaker of water.

I glared at him. "Certainly, you may draw blood, don't bother to ask."

He shrugged. "I used mine last time. I thought it would be more interesting to use yours as know I can't have done anything to it that way."

My mild rebuke at stabbing me with a pin without so much as a by your leave had apparently gone right over his head. I could see what Stamford meant about him being strange and yet I was more entertained than I had been for a long time.

He stirred the beaker of water until the traces of blood were no longer visible and then gestured to the liquid I was holding. "Add a couple of drops of that to the water and watch," he commanded.

I did as he said and almost instantly a fine reddish-brown residue settled on the bottom of the container.

"You see?" he said. "It can find the merest traces of blood dissolved in water, or any other fluid for that matter. I believe it would even find blood on clothing if you first soaked the clothing in water and then tested the water."

"Ingenious," I told him. I wasn't sure this was quite as fantastic a discovery as he had proclaimed, but I wasn't interested on stamping on his good mood.

"I shall take it to Scotland Yard at once. They have a newly established department dedicated to the scientific detection of crime which will be delighted to get their hands on my discovery. I shall call it the Holmes test." He grinned again and I couldn't resist smiling back.

"Of course you will." I glanced over at Stamford to see if he had recovered his composure or if he was still acting like an imbecile.

"Before you go rushing off, Holmes, I brought Watson here because he's in the same boat you are. He's in need of affordable lodgings and I remembered you were complaining about the price of comfortable rooms in London yesterday. I thought perhaps the two of you could share the rooms you'd found," Stamford told him.  
I felt Holmes' piercing gaze on me again as he seemed to analyse everything about me in one brief moment.

"Well, I see you are a soldier as well as a medical man, recently back from Afghanistan, where you sustained multiple wounds. You also suffered from some kind of illness before your return or during the journey. You're a sporting man, a gambler, but either very skilled at it or practical enough not to gamble the rent away, which is fortunate as I would hate to find myself out on the streets simply because some horse had failed to perform as expected." He smiled. "Now come, Watson, tell me of your faults and I shall tell you mine and we'll see if we can both live with the other's worst qualities. If we can then I should be delighted to take you with me when I view the rooms again this afternoon."

I shook my head to clear it. "How could you possibly know so much about me?" It seemed as if by simply looking at me he had managed to pluck my entire recent history straight from my mind.

"Oh don't mind him, Watson," Stamford told me cheerfully. "He does this to everyone and he won't tell you how he discovered all that. He likes an air of mystery."

"Indeed I do," Holmes agreed. "Besides if I were to tell you, you should say 'oh how simple, anyone could do that', utterly ignoring the fact that while my observations are based on nothing more than the evidence of my eyes, evidence that any fool could see, very few people are actually capable of seeing the truth when it is before them. So I shall keep my little mysteries for now and even furnish you with a longer list of my own shortcomings before listening to your own confession."

He hopped up onto the edge of the bench, crossing his legs Indian fashion, and then continued speaking.

"I am in the habit of performing experiments at what other people might consider to be unsociable hours. I play the violin. I am prone to black moods where I choose not to speak to anyone for days, although if you just let me be I will snap out of it on my own. You needn't fear I shall blow my brains out in the bathtub one day. Also I have clients who may call at odd hours, although I shall endeavour to keep them from disturbing you. As a doctor no doubt you understand that some emergencies will not wait for normal business hours."

I inclined my head and observed him. "What precisely is your profession, Holmes?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh that isn't important right now, surely? Now stop stalling and list your own flaws."

I chuckled. From any other man this behaviour might be irritating, but from Holmes it seemed perfectly fitting. "Well, let us see," I mused. "Once I begin to practice medicine again there will no doubt be clients at odd hours, but it seems that can't be counted as a flaw as we'll both have visitors at unsociable hours. I smoke. I drink a little, although not to excess. I have a temper when roused, but I'm not inclined toward unprovoked outbursts. I have a service revolver, which we shall need to secure somehow if were both to have strangers tramping through the rooms. At present, I am inclined towards fits of indolence and inactivity when I prefer to stay inside for days at a time, but I hope to make a full recovery and eschew such unhealthy habits." I did not wish to admit the last, but I felt it was only fair to my potential fellow inhabitant to make a full disclosure. "I am also at present sometimes incapable of using my shoulder or my leg to their full potential and it is possible I will need assistance if I overexert myself."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Well then, my dear Doctor, unless you have any objections, I think we should make suitable companions. I have an opportunity to visit the rooms again this afternoon and if they are acceptable we could undertake to move in as soon as possible." He flicked a lightning fast glance towards my leg, clearly as uncomfortable with bringing up my infirmity as I had been. "There are seventeen steps up to the main living quarters and then the bedrooms are on the floor above that, although I believe one of the studies could be adapted to allow you to sleep on the same floor as the reception room with the smaller of the two second floor bedrooms taking its place as a study if it would be more convenient for you."

*^*^*^*

And so, with no notion that I had just made one of the most important decisions of my life, I moved into the rooms at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes.

I was still unable to ascertain precisely what it was Holmes did for a living, but the way he had avoided the question when we first met made me unwilling to ask him again. As Stamford had warned me, Holmes' studies were strangely specific. He could talk about crime and criminals at length, but could not string together more than one sentence about sport, theatre, or literature. He could describe the appearance, usage, and effects of almost every poisonous plant known to man, but couldn't tell thyme from parsley. His knowledge of chemistry was phenomenal, but his knowledge of biology was patchy at best and his knowledge of other sciences such as zoology and astronomy was non-existent. He could create the most unbelievable electrical gadgets from a handful of spare parts, but he couldn't sew a button onto his shirt if his life depended on it. I even tried making a list of his areas of knowledge and ignorance but it still made no sense to me so I tossed it onto the fire in disgust.

In the end it was the chance arrival of a message from one of his clients that gave me the opportunity to discover exactly what occupied Holmes' time.

I had taken to spending too much time lying in bed as the weather had been abysmal of late. A fog had crept in across London and although it lightened a little during the day it never seemed to rise completely and the steam from the trains, omnibuses, and even airships just added to it until you couldn't see more than a few feet. It had become my daily routine to walk for an hour or so each morning to keep my leg from stiffening up, but with the way the fog seemed to wrap around me like a damp blanket I had been forced to stay indoors or risk a return of the fever which had laid me low for so long in India. In consequence I had become far more short-tempered than usual and had found myself being brusque with the maids who kept our rooms clean. I had even vented my bad mood on Mrs Hudson once, but only once. She had raised five children and apparently had little patience with petulance whether it was coming from an infant or a grown man.

Holmes had watched with amusement as she scolded me and then, when she was safely out of earshot, had remarked that he would remember to endeavour to only vent his black moods on me in future as I seemed likely to be far more understanding of them than our housekeeper. I had glared at him for a moment and then his lips had twitched and we had both found ourselves laughing.

When I rose for breakfast at a reasonable time the next morning instead of lurking in my room until nearly lunchtime as I had done for the rest of the week he forbore to comment and merely passed me the newspaper and rang for Mrs Hudson to bring me my tea. It wasn't until she had bustled off to prepare my breakfast and I had taken my first sip of tea that he spoke.

"I believe the fog has lifted a little, so you should be able to resume your perambulations if you are careful, Watson."

I nodded my thanks and rose to look out of the window while I waited for Mrs Hudson's return, nearly missing his next comment as I watched a young man in a constable's uniform making his precarious way along Baker Street on a bone-shaker, swerving around vehicles and pedestrians alike in what seemed to me to be a rather dangerous manner. I sighed and wished for the days when bicycles were driven by nothing more than pedal power instead of these loud, dirty, engine-driven contraptions.

"You might pick up a bunch of violets from the young lady on the corner as you return. All women love flowers, I'm told, and it seems you need to get back into Mrs Hudson's good books."

Turning away from the window I glared at him again, for all the good it did me. I had to admit that he was right though and a small posy for our housekeeper certainly couldn't hurt. I hadn't been on the receiving end of such a lecture since my governess had left and I had been sent away from school.

Because I was looking at Holmes I hadn't seen anyone approach the front door and so I was surprised when Mrs Hudson entered the room and asked apologetically if it was all right for her to show in a caller for Mr Holmes. With a quick glance at me to ensure that I wasn't going to object, Holmes told her to send him up.

"I do apologise for delaying your breakfast, Doctor," he said once she had gone to fetch the caller. "But I fear that such an early visit is most likely important."

When Mrs Hudson returned she was followed by the young policeman I had seen careening down Baker Street moments earlier.

"Would you like me to give you some privacy, Holmes?" I offered.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. I've already interrupted your meal. I shan't drive you out of the room as well. I'm sure that whatever message young..." He paused. "It's Jenkins, isn't it?"

The constable blushed and nodded frantically. "Yes, Mr Holmes, sir."

Holmes smiled and continued. "Well then, I'm sure that you can hear whatever young Jenkins has to say."

The constable handed over a note to Holmes and then put his hands behind his back in what could almost be an imitation of parade rest, if he hadn't been dancing from foot to foot in anticipation. "The Inspector said to wait for your reply, sir."

"Lestrade or Gregson?" Holmes asked almost distractedly as he opened the missive.

"Inspector Lestrade, sir. He was on duty when this one came in and he thinks it could be something special maybe. Says he's got a feeling. Inspector Gregson's practically eating the wallpaper at missing it." He grinned and then seemed to remember where he was and added a belated, "Sir. No offence to the Inspector, of course."

"Of course," Holmes drawled, amusement clearly apparent in his voice. "Tell the good Inspector I shall be there presently and not to move or touch anything until I arrive. And find me a cab while you're at it, Jenkins. Tell it to be here at." He checked his watch. "9:30 precisely."

When the constable had left, his boots clattering down the stairs as he ran off to do as he was told, Holmes told Mrs Hudson to bring up my breakfast immediately and then turned to me. "So, Watson, how would you feel about a little adventure to alleviate your boredom?"

"What kind of adventure?" I asked, although after the last week I was game for pretty much anything legal and probably some things that weren't as I'm sure Holmes was aware.

"There's been a murder. Inspector Lestrade has invited me to come along to the scene and give him the benefit of my expertise. You're a medical man and I'm sure that both that and your military career have prepared you for the sight of a dead body. I imagine you could be of use and even if you have nothing to add I always work better with an audience."

"And this Inspector of yours won't mind if you turn up with a guest to his crime scene?" I asked dubiously.

"As long as I solve his crime for him, Lestrade wouldn't mind if I turned up with an entire circus." There was a brief pause and then he grinned at me. "Well, I'm sure he'd mind, but he wouldn't say anything about it. He needs me."

I wasn't so sure. After all to become an Inspector the man must be good at what he did; what could Holmes possibly do that Lestrade couldn't do himself? I said as much although I fancy I put it a trifle more diplomatically than that.

"On the contrary, Lestrade begs for my help." He tossed me the letter and I caught it just before it landed in the plate of eggs that Mrs Hudson was laying before me. "Read for yourself. And for the record I am the only consulting detective in the world, so if I won't help him then no one will."

"What exactly does a consulting detective do?" I asked as I started reading the note that Inspector Lestrade had sent Holmes, while trying to make in-roads on my breakfast at the same time.

"When a case proves too difficult for the police or for one of London's myriad private detectives to solve, they bring it to me and I give them an answer," he told me. "I rarely have to do more than study the facts as they are presented to me to know what the solution is. Lestrade must feel that this particular case is especially perplexing or truly horrific to request my presence at the scene."

I dropped the note and regarded him in confusion. "Are you saying that you can solve cases for other detectives without ever leaving the comfort of our sitting room?"

"Of course." There was no arrogance in his term, just a clear certainty as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"But how?" I blustered.

"In the same manner that I could tell you were a military doctor recently returned from Afghanistan when we first met." He folded his arms across his chest and I could see that he was just waiting for me to ask. I really wanted to remain silent simply to see if he could resist telling me without prompting, but I am, as I have previously mentioned, incurably curious.

"How did you know that?" I reluctantly asked. "At first I thought someone must have told you, but you had no notion that Stamford would be bringing me to meet you before we arrived. Stamford himself had no opportunity to tell you anything about me as he hadn't seen you between bumping into me at my hotel and our trip to Bart's to see you the next day and we share no other mutual friends."

"I told you at the time, I merely observed what was there to be seen and then drew the obvious conclusions from those facts and as I also said that day, when I tell you how I knew you will say that it is absurdly simple and that anyone could do it."

I sighed. "If I promise not to say anything about it being simple will you agree to stop being aggravating and actually tell me what you mean? If you make me keep asking I won't be able to finish my breakfast before we have to leave."

"Heaven forbid anything get between Doctor Watson and his breakfast," Holmes teased. I would have objected but there was more than an element of truth in his comment. Fortunately, he took my silence as an invitation to continue and finally began his explanation.

"You told me you were a doctor when you introduced yourself and yet you have an upright military bearing. So clearly you are an army doctor. Your face and hands are tanned which implies you have recently been abroad in a much warmer clime. You hold your shoulder stiffly and move your arm carefully, indicating that it has been injured in some way recently. You walk with a cane and lean on it when you stand, so that indicates a second wound. Either you are very unlucky or they occurred at roughly the same time. An army doctor who has been abroad and injured in two places at the same time… the most likely explanation is you have been involved in the war with the Afghan tribes. Your clothes, while well tailored, hang from your frame as if they were made for a man with a broader build. Their quality along with the expense of your cane and watch and the fact that you are looking for rooms in London makes it unlikely that they are second-hand. Conclusion, you have lost a significant amount of weight recently."

He took a breath and looked at me to see if I wished to hear more. "Spot on so far. Carry on, Holmes, it's fascinating."

"Very well. One does not lose weight rapidly from a shoulder injury nor from a leg injury. Thus you have been ill. Since you were clearly not still sick the fact that you were as yet not recovered from the effects suggest that it was a serious or protracted illness and yet your tan has not faded. So the illness must have occurred while you were still abroad or during your return journey. I know you are a gambler because of our first meeting, but as I have already pointed out the quality of your clothing and accessories does not indicate that you are suffering from an extreme of poverty, thus you are either a very successful gambler or retain enough control to stop before you lose too much." He smiled. "And if you wish for a few more of my deductions I would hazard a guess that you have a brother called Harry, who you care for a great deal, but cannot rely on for some reason. I would suggest that he is a drinker, but I confess I cannot be sure of that last deduction."

"How on earth..." I was amazed. I never talk of my brother. His alcoholic binges are an endless embarrassment to me and I try not to think about him too much.

Holmes gestured at my watch. "'To John, from Harry.' First names are generally reserved for family, so your watch was a gift from your brother. That you wear it despite not being in close contact implies you care for him and yet are somehow estranged. As for how I knew that he drinks, I freely confess that was a guess, but had he been someone upon who you could rely you would not have been staying in a hotel and searching for a room mate when we first met and the most likely reason that a man from a reasonably well off family with a responsible and reliable brother such as yourself would be himself so unreliable is that he drinks."

I flushed. "Well, yes, you were right on all counts. It does sound simple when explained that way, but I believe that is down to your skill in communicating your deductions rather than the process itself. I am impressed, Holmes. I can see why Inspector Lestrade is so eager to enlist your help and I would be delighted to accompany you and get out of this blasted flat for a while if you do not think I would be in the way."

*^*^*^*

As soon as I had finished my breakfast I collected my coat and hat, ready to go downstairs and meet the cab that Holmes had ordered for us. Before I could leave the room however, Holmes stopped me with a hand on my arm and pulled a cane from the umbrella stand by the door. I had not intended to take my cane with me since I was not expecting to do much walking and I still despised the weakness that using one betrayed.

"I hope you don't object, but I had this made up for you," he said, affecting an innocent tone that even our short acquaintance had taught me to distrust. "Residing here with me is bound to put you in danger occasionally and it's not always practical to carry your revolver with you. Not to mention the fact that the police are rather disapproving of gun-play within the metropolis." With a flick of his wrist he drew a sharp blade from the innocent body of the cane and flourished it, nearly cutting my coat open in the process.

I couldn't help but smile. A sword cane. I'd always rather fancied owning one of those and now Holmes was waving one in my face and assuming a hopeful expression as he tried to persuade me to accept it. I took the two pieces from him and swiftly re-sheathed the blade, admiring the way the cane resumed its harmless appearance with nothing betraying its true purpose.

"Thank you, Holmes. It's wonderful. I shall carry it with pride."

It wasn't until we were climbing into the cab that I realised Holmes had manoeuvred me into more or less agreeing to carry a cane whenever I went out, when he knew I hated to do so. I bit back a groan at how easily I had been manipulated. That he could do this to me within weeks of our meeting did not bode well for my chances of standing up to him at any point in our future relationship.

The cab took us to one of the poorest areas of the East End. The buildings were shabby at best and derelict at worst and the narrow streets teemed with the dregs of humanity. Even the sky was duller and the smog more foreboding in this part of the city. Our destination was obvious; there were two constables outside the door and a clutch of bone-shakers leaning against the wall. The door itself was missing although whether that was as a result of the crime, the police, or simply another indication of the general state of disrepair of the building, I could not say.

Holmes immediately leapt out of the cab, leaving me to pay the driver. I merely rolled my eyes at his actions, being used to his bursts of enthusiasm by now. I was sure that either Holmes or his Inspector would reimburse me at some point so I had no cause to worry on that account. Descending from the cab I made my way into the building more slowly than Holmes had, paying attention to where I placed my feet as a piece of debris which would occasion nothing more than a stumble in another man might easily cause me to fall and I did not wish to embarrass myself in front of the young policeman who was guarding the door.

I paused in the doorway of the building to allow my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light inside and then slowly made my way inside. I was in a reasonably large room, the floor bare and covered in debris – from the broken door, from the flaking paint, and just from the general disused state of the building. There were several other people in the room as well as myself and Holmes, but I ignored them for the moment, my eyes drawn inexorably to the corpse lying in the middle of the room, the head and neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and then to the message scrawled on the wall in front of me, seemingly positioned so that it would immediately attract the attention of anyone entering the building, and scrawled in what I could only assume was the victim's own blood. I shuddered slightly at the thought. Surely this must have been the work of a madman.

A gentle clearing of a throat from just beside me pulled my focus back onto my surroundings and away from the macabre inscription on the wall. I turned and met the somewhat sympathetic guise of a smartly dressed man I didn't know. He was slightly shorter than I am with thin, dark hair that was starting to grey a little even though I wouldn't have put his age at any more than 35. His features were slightly pinched and his eyes almost hawk-like in their intensity. Indeed they reminded me a little of Holmes' and I got the impression that the man was shrewd and intelligent and likely didn't miss much. He was the only person in the room not in uniform, other than Holmes and myself, so I concluded that he must be the Inspector who had summoned us here. I barely restrained myself from shaking my head at the path my thoughts were taking; clearly Holmes' methods were already rubbing off on me, even after so short a time.

"Who are you and what are you doing at my murder?"

Well if I must try and imitate Holmes' deductive processes at least I had the consolation of being right. I smiled ruefully at the man. "Terribly sorry. I should have realised Holmes wouldn't bother with anything as mundane as introductions when he had a puzzle to solve. I'm Doctor Watson. Holmes asked if I would come and give him a second opinion on the death. He assured me you wouldn't mind."

The Inspector turned a baleful glare on my companion before looking back at me and holding his hand out. "Inspector Lestrade. It would be nice if he'd consult me occasionally before making decisions about my investigation. I know better than to expect it by now."

"If you'd rather I didn't examine the body, I won't," I offered. "No matter what Holmes may believe I do realise this is your murder investigation."

Lestrade managed a small smile at that before resuming his previous serious demeanour. "Thank you, but I have no objections. I want this one solved and if Mr Holmes thinks you can help then no doubt he is correct. As always."

I lowered my voice and smiled conspiratorially at him. "Aggravating, isn't it?"

He slapped my back and nodded. "Incredibly, but as long as he keeps catching murderers I suppose I can't object. It'll be nice to have someone sane around to try and rein him in for once."

I shook my head and smiled ruefully. "I sincerely doubt anyone can rein Holmes in when he's on a roll; however, I shall do my best to temper some of his outbursts. I've only known him a short while but living with him has forced me to learn how to handle him."

"He told me he'd found someone to share rooms with him. Rather you than me. I don't think I could take twenty-four hours of undiluted Sherlock Holmes."

Chuckling I glanced over at Holmes, who was crouched by the body. "It's an interesting experience," I said with a smile. Gesturing to my leg, I continued, "Since I have been confined to the rooms recently, having Holmes around at least alleviates the boredom."

Lestrade regarded the corpse again and sighed. "Sometimes, I'd give my right arm for a decent spot of boredom. Go on, you'd better go and abet Mr Holmes in his investigation or he'll have the blasted thing solved before you even get your hands on the body."

I almost saluted before I could stop myself. The Inspector had a manner that reminded me of one of my old commanding officers. I found myself liking him though and thought that if Holmes worked with him frequently then we might even become friends. I liked that idea, as Stamford and Holmes aside, I still didn't really have anyone I would consider a friend in the city, and Stamford was more of a pleasant reminder of my past than a true friend.

Crossing the room to where Holmes was crouching, peering at the body, I cleared my throat softly. "Should I examine the victim now, Holmes, or would you rather stare at him a little longer?"

He looked up, seemingly startled by my presence, as if he'd forgotten he'd brought me with him.

"I think I have learnt everything I can from the body. Do your worst, my dear Doctor. Please do speak your observations aloud and don't be afraid of stating the obvious. I should be interested to hear your opinion of the unfortunate's final minutes."

He stepped back and turned to examine the wall, seemingly completely absorbed by it, and yet I had no doubt that he would be listening to my every word and would probably be able to repeat my observations back to me word for word at a later date. I had already discovered that amongst his other annoying qualities, Holmes had almost perfect recall, especially when it came to things I didn't wish him to remember.

Carefully, I placed my cane on the floor and lowered myself to kneel next to the body. How I was going to get back up again after I'd finished I had no idea, but I decided to worry about that when the time came.

I started by making a visual examination of the body where it was lying. There were no holes in his clothing so the victim didn't seem to have been stabbed or shot. In fact there were no wounds visible from this position at all, although there was a large pool of dried blood under the head.

"The blood suggests a head injury. Head wounds bleed a lot so I can't tell if it was fatal, but it definitely shows that the man was still alive when he fell to the ground. A body only bleeds like this before death." I looked up at the Inspector. "Is it all right with you if I roll him over now?"

He nodded. "My men already took photographs and there's nothing more for us to do here. As soon as you and Mr Holmes are done the body will go to the morgue so it can be examined."

Once he was on his back, the head injury was immediately apparent. "There's a gash to the temple, consistent with the victim falling and hitting his head." I probed it gently. "Despite the blood it's superficial and not severe enough to cause death." His collar was partly detached so I pushed it down further and examined his neck, wincing at the damage I could see there. "There are signs of strangulation and bruises are just starting to appear on the neck." I paused and tilted my head. "That's odd..."

Holmes turned to face me and crouched down again. "What?"

Cautiously I placed my fingers along the lines of the bruises; they roughly fit the pattern. "The bruising looks like fingermarks, but only from one hand." I looked up at the Inspector. "Do you have any idea how strong someone would have to be to strangle an adult male with just one hand? Especially one who, by all indications, was conscious at the time?"

The Inspector crossed the room and bent over, examining the bruises and nodding as I demonstrated how the assailant must have held his victim. "That's impossible..."

Holmes scoffed. "Clearly not. Doctor Watson is clearly demonstrating what must have happened, therefore it cannot be impossible."

I let go and the victim's head lolled backwards at an unnatural angle. "Broken neck," I said. "I believe the attacker strangled him, leaving him unconscious although not yet dead, and then let him drop to the floor, causing the gash to the head and possibly the broken neck, although with the strength needed to strangle a man with just one hand it is possible the neck was broken manually after the victim was on the ground. It was the broken neck that eventually led to death. I doubt he regained consciousness at any point."

"Of course he didn't, Watson," Holmes said impatiently, gesturing to the pool of blood. "He clearly never moved again from the moment he was dropped to the floor." He picked up the victim's hands one by one and carefully examined them. "He struggled against his attacker; witness the broken nails on both hands, and yet there seems to be no skin or blood under the nails as there should be if he had scratched at the killer's hands. Most curious. Perhaps the killer was wearing gloves, which would certainly indicate premeditation. The writing on the wall is clearly in his blood, possibly done as an afterthought or to try and confuse us. 'Rache'. German for revenge, yet I doubt the killer is German. The victim certainly isn't. His tailoring suggests he is middle class or at least not as poor as the inhabitants of this area of the city and the cut isn't that of a London tailor. I would suggest American or possibly Canadian workmanship. He was either lured or chased to this location so I doubt your questioning of the locals will yield much evidence, Inspector. That's another sign of premeditation." He looked up and smiled at Lestrade. "While I cannot rule out more murders, I can at least assure you that the choice of victim wasn't random. No killer would go to the effort of luring a perfect stranger here when there are so many local people who could disappear without anyone noticing. If the victim was random he would have been killed much closer to the place from whence he came. I can't tell you where that was but he's from out of town so you'll need to find a lodging house or hotel that is missing a guest."

"Maybe the inscription is part of a name," I mused. "Rachel rather than rache."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "What on earth makes you think that?"

I opened my hand and smiled triumphantly, pleased to have seen something that Holmes had missed. "This does." I showed him the simple golden band that had been concealed by the body and which I had picked up when I rolled the victim over. "A wedding ring implies the motive involves a woman, wouldn't you say?"

"In my experience most murders involve a woman or money. Usually both." Holmes stood up abruptly. "It's possible, but I suspect this Rachel will prove to be a figment of your unusually vivid imagination, Watson. I think I have seen all I need to see here; I shall find us another cab and we can return to Baker Street while the Inspector tracks down out victim's identity. I should start with the wallet in his breast pocket if I were you, Lestrade."

He walked off without a backwards glance and Lestrade reached over my shoulder to find the wallet that Holmes had mentioned, flicking it open and quickly rifling through it. He groaned. "I hate it when he's right." He turned it towards me, revealing several American dollar notes.

Lestrade straightened up and then handed me my cane. Wordlessly he held out his hand to help me to my feet, easily steadying me when I stumbled slightly as I tried to make my leg hold my weight again. I leant heavily on my cane and started to mutter my thanks, but he waved me off.

"No, thank you, Doctor Watson. Your observations were very helpful. It's useful to have a medical man around for these types of things and goodness knows you can't get the police doctors to leave the morgue and come out to a crime scene." He lowered his voice slightly. "I've been in your position and there's no shame in asking for help, but it's easier to accept when you don't have to ask, isn't it?" He shook my hand. "Now you'd better go after Mr Holmes before he forgets you were with him and leaves you here."

That sounded a very likely prospect and I had no desire to find myself stranded in this area, although I had no doubts that the Inspector would make sure I made it back to Baker Street safely. I did not wish to impose upon him and his assistance any further so I needed to catch up to my companion before he disappeared.

My leg was beginning to ache; my doctor would no doubt blame that on my foolishly overexerting myself to kneel on the floor, which was why I wouldn't be mentioning it to him on his next visit. Despite that I set out along the street at as brisk a pace as I could manage.

No hansom would come into this area unless it was carrying a fare and I had hoped that Holmes would have sent someone to fetch one for us, possibly young Jenkins who had looked positively eager to be of assistance to the 'great detective', but he had apparently decided to seek one out himself, so I had no choice but to follow where I thought he had gone and hope he would think to ask the driver to wait for me.

I had reached the edge of the poor neighbourhood in which we had found ourselves by the time my leg gave out and I was forced to lean against a building and rest. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths against the pain. I was a fool. I should have returned to the building as soon as I realised that Holmes was out of sight and asked Lestrade to send someone to fetch me a cab, but my pride hadn't allowed it and now I was paying for it. Pride truly does go before a fall.

I was roused from my self-recriminations by the sound of a cab clattering along the road and I struggled to stand upright again, leaning heavily on my cane. Before I could make a move to hail it, the cab was already slowing down.

I was surprised and not a little embarrassed when Holmes leapt out and took my arm, hissing violently, "What on earth do you think you are doing, man? You should have waited with Lestrade until I returned instead of engaging in this foolish and unnecessary display of virility. If you end up housebound again you will be of no use to me at all in this investigation. Now let me help you into the cab and we shall return to Baker Street where you will make yourself comfortable on the couch with your leg elevated while we await the results of Lestrade's enquiries."

I allowed him to aid my ascent into the cab purely because I was not sure I could manage without his assistance at this point and then I shook my arm free of his grip, my temper beginning to rouse. "Since neither Lestrade nor I knew that you would be returning or whether you would even remember my presence at the scene it did not seem prudent to wait."

Holmes looked a little abashed at that. "I may be in the habit of becoming a trifle distracted when I am in the midst of the case and of overlooking trivial matters, but I do not consider you presence or your assistance to be trivial and as such I would never simply abandon you like that. I suppose that since we have known each other such a short amount of time your lack of faith is understandable, but I find it somewhat disturbing coming from Lestrade. I believed he knew me better than that."

I didn't have the words to reply to Holmes' recriminations and so I remained silent. Besides which the bumping and jostling of the cab's motion was sending needles of excruciating pain through my leg and I wasn't sure that anything I tried to say wouldn't come out as a pained moan instead. There would be time enough to apologise for my misjudgement once we were safe inside our rooms in Baker Street again. Hopefully by then I would have decided exactly what I wanted to say.

When we reached our destination I allowed Holmes to help me out of the cab but insisted on making my own slow, painful way up the seventeen steps to our rooms, leaning heavily on both my new cane and the bannister. When I reached the top I was sweating and my leg was shaking so violently that it was all I could do to prevent myself tumbling back down the staircase.

Holmes was watching me with his hands on his hips and an indescribable expression on his face. "Have you quite finished acting like an imbecile or are you planning to injure yourself any further today? Why you had to climb those stairs alone when I am standing right here is beyond me but now you're up here for the love of God let me help you to the damn couch before you fall and damage something else and render yourself completely useless to me in the pursuit of this investigation."

He may have muttered something about stubborn doctors who are too stupid to follow their own advice as well but I was concentrating on not giving into the bout of nausea that my exertions had brought on and chose to ignore him.

"Good grief, you look like you're about to pass out," Holmes grumbled grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the stairs.

Before I could say anything he scooped my up in his arms like some blushing maiden and carried me into our living room, depositing me on the couch and then ringing for Mrs Hudson while I was still spluttering in indignation.

"If you're going to act like a child, Watson, then I shall treat you like one," he informed me brusquely. "Now lay quietly and Mrs Hudson will bring you some tea and something to eat." He snatched up the blanket from the back of the couch and laid it over me before reaching underneath it to pull my shoes off. "I don't want you to move except to remove your jacket if you wish and to drink your tea."

When Mrs Hudson entered she had my hat in her hand."I found this at the top of the stairs, is the good Doctor quite all right?" she asked Holmes, as if I wasn't in the room and perfectly capable of answering her questions myself.

I wriggled until I was in a more upright position and hastily discarded my jacket and arranged the blanket over my legs instead of covering my entire torso as Holmes had left it.

"I am fine, Mrs Hudson," I started to answer only to be interrupted by a loud snort from Holmes. Shooting a brief glare in his direction I turned back and concentrated on our landlady. "Despite Holmes' over-reaction I am fine and have simply over done things a trifle this morning. A pot of your excellent tea and maybe a couple of those ginger snaps that you have been baking this morning and I shall be quite recovered."

Once she had left to fetch our refreshments I turned my attention back to Holmes. "You are acting like an insufferable mother hen, Holmes. I realise I have acted a little foolishly this morning, but I have my pride and I would rather manage on my own if at all possible. If you ever try and carry me like that again without me being unconscious I shall not be responsible for my actions."

He looked somewhat abashed but regarded me defiantly. "I shall endeavour not to dent your pride in future only if you endeavour to act like a reasonable person and not pretend you're invincible. You should have allowed me to help you up the stairs, Watson. You could have seriously injured yourself if you had lost your balance."

"Yes, yes and that would have inconvenienced you," I snapped at him.

"I may have spoken in terms of the case to mask my own concern," he admitted softly. "I am worried about you, Watson."

I sighed and took the words as the apology they were no doubt intended as. "I regret the way I acted this morning, Holmes. I may occasionally be a trifle too stubborn for my own good. In future, I shall endeavour to admit that I need help before it gets to this point."

"Good, then we shall speak no more of it," he said briskly.

"Actually," I said, self-consciously. "I owe you another apology as well, Holmes. I should not have thought you would disappear without a word like that. I do not find it easy to trust others, but that is my failing, not yours."

"From now on, Doctor, you will trust me not to be quite so heartless and perhaps you could bring yourself to trust Lestrade as well. He may not be the cleverest of men and his imagination leaves a lot to be desired but he is reliable and a good man in his own way."

"You cannot just order me to trust someone and expect it to be so," I said, exasperated by yet another example of Holmes' inability to understand in practice the human emotions which he was no doubt proficient in analysing in theory to solve his crimes. "It is something that happens gradually. You can't just snap your fingers and expect it to happen instantly."

He looked disappointed and turned away to stare out of the window at Baker Street and I felt inexplicably guilty for upsetting him. "I shall do my best, Holmes, to trust both you and Lestrade if you agree to overlook any lapses along the way."

I was unsure which of the two of us had been more discomforted by the previous few minutes, myself because of the physical weakness I had been unable to conceal or Holmes because of his uncharacteristic expression of concern, although I suspect it was Holmes as by now I was at least somewhat used to being ambushed by my infirmity. I am sure, however, that we were both mightily relieved when Mrs Hudson returned with the tea things.

She bustled around, fussing over me solicitously and ignoring my protests that I was fine, but eventually she had the tea table set up to her satisfaction and, having no excuse to remain and continue to hover over me, she retreated back to her own domain, leaving us alone once again.

Holmes was still staring out of the window, his back rigid and his hands jammed into his pockets. In an attempt to cajole him back into a better humour, I asked, "So what do you make of the murder so far?"

He turned and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head to observe me. He looked rather like a pet bird one of the officer's wives had had on the boat home, although I don't think he'd appreciate the comparison.

"The victim wasn't random, thus the murderer was known to him, which means either he believed he had nothing to fear from his murderer or there was more than one person involved in his death, because I have no doubt that he was lured to that location and no man would willingly walk into an empty house in an area that was not known to him to keep a rendezvous with someone he deemed a threat. Since our murderer is inhumanly strong I lean towards the idea of an accomplice. I am not sure I would wish to meet someone that physically intimidating on my own no matter how well I knew them."

He paused and I gestured for him to continue. "The motive is likely to have something to do with a woman as evidenced by the ring you so cleverly found and I think the ring may prove to be our best way of tracking our man. I suspect it has some importance to him and he will no doubt wish to recover it. An advert in the evening paper may garner a response from our killer. I believe if he is willing to kill for the sake of this woman then he will be willing to risk being apprehended in order to recover the ring. I shall arrange for that after I have spoken to Lestrade."

"How long do you think it will take him to find where the victim was staying?" I asked. I had no experience of such an investigation and was unsure if Holmes was expecting further developments in a matter of hours or whether it would be days.

"I doubt it will take him long. Lestrade is extremely capable and this is a task which merely needs diligence and a sufficient concentration on manpower rather than any kind of deductive reasoning. Enough constables out knocking on doors and I am sure he will soon find a landlady who is missing a lodger. After that it will be a simple matter to match the name of her missing lodger with the name in our victim's wallet. If we are fortunate we will also learn if he had any acquaintances in London and if not at least find where in the United States he hails from. Lestrade will be able to contact his American colleagues and see if a motive or a suspect is forthcoming from their knowledge of our victim. That, however, will take time, and if our murderer has more potential victims in his sights then time is not something we have an over abundance of."

"You really think he'll strike again?" I asked, not a little alarmed by the notion.

Holmes shrugged. "I cannot say. It depends on what grudge it was that prompted this killing and I'm afraid without locating either our murderer or a friend of the victim that that is not a question we will be able to answer until we have heard from the American police."

He didn't seem particularly concerned about the prospect of more murders, but I decided that in his career worrying too much about murders that haven't happened yet might be a good way to drive yourself insane so I could not fault him for it. In my profession, concern was an advantage; I could see that for Holmes and Lestrade, it might well be the opposite.

Holmes had gone back to staring out of the window so I picked up the latest issue of the Lancet and tried to focus on that. Unfortunately, I could not concentrate and found myself starting every time there was the slightest noise from downstairs, hoping that it heralded the arrival of Lestrade or one of his messengers with news of the case.

As it turned out, word did not arrive until we were sitting down to one of Mrs Hudson's excellent lunches. We had just been served with a repast consisting of curried mutton, no doubt the remains of yesterday's joint, when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door of our sitting room and informed us, somewhat apologetically, that Inspector Lestrade was downstairs, asking for Holmes.

I started to put my cutlery down regretfully. Mrs Hudson really did make a delicious curry and I had been looking forward to the meal.

Glaring at me, Holmes shook his head firmly. "You need to eat or you will set your recovery back and you especially need sustenance after this morning's exertions. Lestrade can join us if he wishes or he can deliver his message and leave but you are not going anywhere without eating first."

"Yes, nanny," I muttered, garnering a raised eyebrow and a small smirk from my companion.

"Send him up, Mrs Hudson and bring another plate and some more cutlery. I'm sure you've provided enough to share with the good Inspector without either of us having to go short." Holmes leant back in his chair and watched the door eagerly, his fingers drumming softly on the tablecloth.

I could not help but smile at this evidence of his childish eagerness to know what had happened since we had left the crime scene this morning.

Lestrade removed his hat as he entered the room, running his hands around the rim somewhat nervously. "I apologise for interrupting your meal. I should have sent a runner with a message rather than disturbing you."

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. Your timing is fortuitous. You can fill us in on what you have discovered while we eat. Doctor Watson rather overdid things this morning so we shan't be going anywhere until he has regained his energy and if you had arrived earlier I'm sure he would have been eager to forgo his meal in favour of continuing our investigation, so it is fortunate that you arrived after the food had been placed on the table. It would, after all, be unforgivably rude to leave without at least tasting the fruits of Mrs Hudson's hard work."

I rolled my eyes. "You sound more and more like a governess with every word, Holmes. I have already agreed that I won't go anywhere until after the meal so you needn't carry on so. Sit down, Lestrade, there's plenty of food to go around and I doubt you've had a chance to eat yet if you've been running around London looking for boarding houses with missing lodgers."

Lestrade glanced at Holmes, clearly unused to this kind of consideration and I smiled to myself. Holmes did seem rather the type to forget little inconveniences like food or sleep when he was caught up in one of his passions. Maybe the fact he felt the need to insist I eat and rest regularly would lead to him taking better care of himself.

"Thank you. It's very kind of you gentlemen." Lestrade's pinched features were transformed as he smiled at us and settled himself into the third chair which the maid had procured while we were talking. "It smells delicious I must say."

"It tastes at least as good as it smells," I assured him warmly. "Mrs Hudson is a wonderful cook and a nice meal of curried mutton is just the thing to chase away the horrid weather we've been having. Tuck in and tell us what you've discovered."

We had almost finished the curry before Lestrade spoke again. Holmes seemed content to wait until he was ready to talk and since he knew the Inspector better than I did I chose to follow his lead.

"We needed more people to find the lodging house out victim was staying at, so the Superintendent assigned Gregson to the case to 'assist'."

Lestrade's sour expression told me all I needed to know about his thoughts on that idea, but the police, much like the army, rely on junior officers doing what their superiors tell them to, so he'd clearly had no choice but to swallow his objections and accept the help.

"Naturally he was the one who found the place," Lestrade continued. "The man's luck is astonishing sometimes. Anyway I've got a man standing guard so you can come and look at their rooms if you wish and talk to the landlady, but Gregson's already made his arrest."

"You found the murderer?" I interjected, surprised that he hadn't told us that as soon as he arrived.

"I very much doubt it," he answered. "But Gregson thinks he has and I couldn't dissuade him."

"It's your case," Holmes told him firmly. "Surely it should be your arrest."

"Well, it might have been, but I refused to make it. The fool's arrested the landlady's son and I'll own he has a motive all right. Our victim and his two friends were thrown out of the house after the victim tried to press his affections on the landlady's daughter. Unwanted affections I might add. The friends came back earlier today and tried to talk their way back into the house, telling the landlady that Drebber, Enoch J Drebber, that's the name of the dead man, had run off. They offered her a large sum to take their rooms again but when she was out of the room one of them made another pass at her daughter and the son threw them out. Punched one of them in the face and, from the landlady's description of his injuries, broke the blighter's nose. Well, no sooner had he heard that than Gregson had the poor lad in handcuffs and on his way to a cell." Lestrade shovelled the last mouthful of curry into his mouth and tossed his cutlery down onto the plate with a loud clatter. "Bloody idiot. If Drebber had been found beaten black and blue or even with a knife in his ribs a few streets from the lodging house I'd think he had a case, but luring the man to an abandoned house halfway across the East End from where he started and strangling him one handed? He's got the wrong man. Only I've got no way of proving it unless we can find the right one somehow."

"Their rooms are as they left them, you say?" Holmes asked thoughtfully.

"I've got a man there making sure the landlady doesn't let them out again until you give the word and you can interview her as well if you like. I can probably get you in to see the son but it won't be easy. Gregson's going to guard his prisoner like a mother hen with one chick."

Holmes leant back and thought for a moment. "I agree with your conclusions. It's highly unlikely the son is our killer. I assume if he was particularly large and brutish in build you would have mentioned it?"

"He's shorter than I am and slender as a girl," Lestrade said. "I doubt he could strangle a chicken let alone a full grown man and certainly not with one hand."

"Then we shall, for now, ignore him. The best we can do for that young man is to catch the real killer. Talking to him won't speed the process along any. I shall inspect the lodging house and talk to the landlady and we will consider our course once I have done that. I still put little faith in the bloody message on the wall, but it would be well not to discount it completely so I shall arrange a meeting with Mycroft and bring myself up to date on the government's position with regards to anarchists within our borders. I shall also put an advert in the evening papers about the wedding ring and hope that the fact we are not police will entice the killer to visit Watson and myself or at least send a messenger. And if you don't object I shall put the Irregulars to good use tracking down our victim's associates. I assume you can furnish me with accurate descriptions of the men in question?"

"I can find the dead man's friends myself," Lestrade told Holmes sharply. "I don't need the help of a bunch of street rats to do my job."

Holmes raised an eyebrow and regarded him for a moment. "If Gregson feels he has apprehended the miscreant already then you won't have the same number of men at your disposal as you had this morning and I believe it is imperative we find them as quickly as possible." Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but Holmes continued with all the inevitability of an out of control locomotive. "I assure you that you will retain all the credit for finding them and Gregson will never know you had help from my Irregulars." Lestrade tried once more to interrupt, the attempt failing almost as it began. "You know you can trust them, no matter what else you think of them, Lestrade, and I hope you know you can trust me!"

Lestrade sighed. "Fine, have it your way, Holmes. You always do. I have no doubt you'd go ahead regardless of my feelings on the matter; at least this way I can remain somewhat informed of your actions. I want to come with you when you talk to your brother. You're probably correct about the message being a red herring but I'd like to be sure we're not discounting a vital piece of evidence."

*^*^*^*

Holmes ushered Lestrade out after we'd finished eating and promised to meet him at the lodgings within the hour. "I need to organise the Irregulars before I leave and for some reason they're a little uncomfortable around you," he told the Inspector.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Probably because there's not a one of them who isn't guilty of something. No doubt their consciences prick when they see me."

"No, I think they just fear you'll arrest them. Fortunately, you don't actually have a crime to pin on them and they're all smart enough to keep it that way." He smiled slyly at Lestrade. "I did observe you tossing Wiggins a shilling last time you encountered him though."

"He provided useful information and a reward might keep his fingers out of someone else's pockets for a few days," Lestrade said blandly, keeping his eyes on a spot just above Holmes' left shoulder.

"And Carter told me you bought him a bag of chestnuts last Christmas."

"It kept his hands occupied when he brought your message and meant I didn't lose my watch to the little rat."

"And the gloves that Reynolds found in his pocket after he'd given us that tip on the Mayfair jewel thief?"

"A gift from my sister in law. She tries to knit, Lord bless her, but she's just no good at it. Things never end up the size she intended and there was no way I was going to be able to get them on my hands."

Holmes laughed and clapped him on the shoulder as he left. "You're not the person you pretend to be, Inspector, but fear not, your secret is safe with me. Now go on and I shall be with you shortly."

Once he had left I turned to Holmes and asked in exasperation, "So who exactly are these 'Irregulars' of yours?"

I saw a brief flash of surprise, an expression you don't see often on Holmes' face, followed by a more pensive look as he ran his discussion with Lestrade back in his mind. "I apologise. I thought I had explained but it appears I forgot." He grinned at me. "They're street children in the main, quick of hand and eye and quick of thought as well. When I need someone found or watched or I need to know what the word is amongst the criminal classes I pay the Irregulars for information. A shilling a day, with a larger sum if they find a vital clue. I try to oversee their education as well when I can in the hopes that as they grow older they can find their own place in the world. No one notices a ragged child loitering on the corner or if they do they pay them no attention. It never occurs to the people they are following that a child could be carrying information for me or for the police and for all of Lestrade's denials, he has no reservations about using their information when it is to his advantage."

"That sounds ingenious, Holmes. Do you truly need me here to coordinate them or are you simply trying to make me rest?" I suspected it was mostly a ruse and I resented that even though I knew at heart that an afternoon of enforced relaxation would probably do me the world of good.

Holmes shrugged. "I cannot lie and say that I am unhappy about the idea of you getting the rest you clearly need, but I do need someone here to organise the search and keep track of what they find and it would be unfair to impose upon Mrs Hudson. Besides if you rest then this evening you and Lestrade can both accompany me to Mycroft's club and we shall discuss the state of anarchism in London so that I can completely rule out our inscription as a clue."

"You have spoken of your brother only once since I met you, Holmes. What exactly is it he does and which club will we be dining at?" I had been curious about the elder Holmes since my companion had first mentioned him but since I am reticent about discussing my own family I could hardly press him on the issue without seeming rude. Now, however, I had the perfect opening and even an opportunity to meet the man himself, which was far more than I could have hoped for.

"Mycroft works for the Government and much of what he does must remain secret. I shall let him speak for himself this evening. As for the club..." Here Holmes smiled. "I doubt you will have heard of it as Mycroft founded it himself. It is a club for the most unclubbable men in London and you are far too gregarious for it to suit your tastes. It is for people who wish not to socialise with others. There are comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals, but speaking is absolutely forbidden except in the Strangers' Room, where we shall be dining."

I shook my head. It seemed that the elder Holmes was even more eccentric than his younger brother. I could appreciate a need for peace and quiet but the idea of a club where talking of any kind was forbidden was an anathema to me.

"Now if you will excuse me I will step outside and find one of the Irregulars and have Wiggins, he's their acknowledged leader, come up and get his instructions." He pointed to the couch. "Settle yourself on that and do not move unless you have to, Watson. I wish to be sure you won't injure yourself further while I am out."

*^*^*^*

Wiggins was nothing like I had imagined. He was tall for his age and skinny as a rake, although he didn't seem to be malnourished in my professional opinion, so I assumed he was probably at that age where they shoot up and their weight just can't keep up with their height. His clothes were shabby, as you would expect, but they seemed to be well-cared for. Holes were carefully sewn up where possible and patched where not and they weren't particularly dirty. His hands and face were a trifle grubby, but that seemed to be more from his journey through the streets today than from any long-standing aversion to cleanliness. On top of that his eyes were bright and there was a definite spark of intelligence behind the cheeky grin.

He watched Holmes attentively as my companion described the two men he was looking for and where he thought the boys should concentrate their search and I was sure that when he passed the instructions on to his fellows he would remember every word Holmes had said to him. There was an element of hero worship in his regard for Holmes as well I think, natural I supposed since the man was treating him, not as an equal exactly – I don't think Holmes treated anyone as an equal after all – but at least in the same way he would treat an adult.

When Holmes was done with his briefing, Wiggins looked over at me curiously and I smiled encouragingly, holding out my hand for him to shake. "I'd get up but Holmes will fuss if I do," I told him jovially.

He shook my hand with a pleased smile and I was glad that I had followed Holmes' example and treated him as an adult instead of patronising him and treating him as a child. No doubt a lad who lived on the streets and led his own gang of ragamuffins had had enough responsibility thrust upon his young shoulders to have earned that respect.

"I'll send someone back every half hour to report, sir," he told me. "And if we find them we'll come and get you immediately."

"You are not to approach these men, Wiggins, remember that," Holmes cautioned them. "They may be dangerous. When you find them watch them from a safe distance and inform Doctor Watson so that he can send for Lestrade and myself."

Wiggins glanced over at me and rolled his eyes and I had to fake a cough to muffle my laugh. At least I now knew where Holmes had been practising his mother hen attitude before I came into his life.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. You already said that." He made a kind of sketchy salute and then ran off down the stairs leaving Holmes and me alone again.

"He has far too much energy," Holmes muttered. "At least this should keep it focussed on lawful pursuits for a while and stop Lestrade from complaining." He leant down and squeezed my shoulder. "Please, be careful of your leg this afternoon, Watson, and I shall return in plenty of time to dress for dinner. I will fill you in on everything we discover in the carriage on our way to the club, if that is all right with you. You can give me your opinion on the matter then."

I smiled in pleasure at the idea that Holmes valued my opinion on even non-medical matters. "I should be delighted to do so, Holmes, but you should get on now and not keep the Inspector waiting."

*^*^*^*

By the time Holmes returned home I was beginning to feel a little despondent and I was sincerely hoping that his afternoon had been more productive than my own. The Irregulars had popped in and out of Baker Street all afternoon, driving poor Mrs Hudson to distraction, although I noticed that despite her complaints there had been a smell of baking biscuits all afternoon, none of which had made it up to the sitting room, and the various children I spoke to all had a distinctly crummy appearance... However, as far as I could tell, we were still no closer to finding the two missing men than we had been when Holmes had taken his leave three hours earlier.

Holmes bounded up the stairs and into the room with a burst of boyish energy which I found amusing.

"Good afternoon," he declared, taking a deep breath. "I assume the Irregulars haven't found our American friends yet since you didn't send for me?"

"No," I told him morosely. "They didn't find a thing, but Wiggins assures me they will keep looking. He knows we shan't be here this evening, but he promises to send word the second they find anything."

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder and then squeezed gently. "Rome wasn't built in a day, dear boy, and we're either hunting two murderers or two potential victims. I expected them to be harder to find than their former landlady. They would be foolish not to try and avoid pursuit whether they are the criminals or the victims in this case."

"I suppose. I just thought it would be easier than this," I grumbled. I could see the sense in Holmes' words. After all if they were easy to find, Lestrade wouldn't need our help in the first place.

"Do not trouble yourself, Watson, I assure you I am not worried in the slightest. We will find them. But in the mean time I suggest you take a bath and begin your preparations for this evening. I warn you my brother can be somewhat difficult and you have to promise not to take offence at anything he says. He will no doubt try and provoke one or both of us this evening and I would prefer not to give him the satisfaction of succeeding. No matter what he says, remember I would not have invited you if I did not consider your opinion to be worthwhile."

I looked laid my head back against the arm of the couch so that I could look up at him. I must confess I was beginning to worry a little. If even Holmes found his older brother difficult then I had no doubt that the man must be something very unusual. "If you do not get along, why are you asking for his advice? Surely there must be someone else you could speak to regarding foreign anarchists?"

"My brother is an exceptional man and he is an expert in his field as I am in mine. The real difference between us is that he concerns himself with the problems of Britain and her Empire while I prefer to focus on those of her subjects." He rolled his shoulders as if trying to dispel the tension that I could tell was gathering there. "I do not have many friends, Watson, and so I have no doubt that he will question you to try and find out if you are good enough. He is a trifle overprotective. I suspect his interrogations may be one of the reasons I have so few friends, but I know he has my best interests at heart." He looked down at me and smiled wickedly. "Of course the other reason I don't have many friends is that there are very few people who I don't find to be boring in the extreme."

I smiled warmly at the thought that Holmes regarded me not only as a friend but somehow superior to most of the other candidates for that position. He truly is a remarkable man and I consider myself honoured to be considered his friend. "I shall simply ignore him if he asks anything too personal. Our friendship is a matter for no one but ourselves. Not even a nosy older brother with his sibling's best interests at heart."

I stood up and stretched. "I shall have that bath now if you don't mind. The heat should help my leg, although this afternoon's rest has already done me the world of good."

"Leave the water when you are finished. I bathed this morning so I only need a quick wash to lave away the grime of London's streets and there is no sense in wasting water."

I nodded and turned away from him to hide my blush. Really, there was no reason to react in such a way to his perfectly reasonable suggestion. In India bathwater had often been shared by far more than just two men and yet, here, at home, the idea of Holmes bathing in the same water that I had been relaxing in moments earlier seemed terribly intimate. And not at all unwelcome, I realised as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I would have to make sure that revelation remained hidden, especially if the elder Holmes was as observant as his brother. It would not do for an overprotective older brother with connections at the highest level of government to realise I had perverted designs on his sibling. I had no wish to be made to disappear because of my unnatural desires, especially since there was no chance of them ever becoming more than fantasy.

*^*^*^*

Holmes didn't have a chance to tell me of his afternoon's work until we were in the carriage, which he had ordered to take us to the Diogenes Club. The carriage was far more comfortable than the Hansom cabs that proliferated in London and far more impressive. It was the first time I realised that despite his worries about money, Holmes clearly comes from a wealthy background. I really should have noticed before – his manners are those of someone born to the aristocracy rather than mere gentleman or officer class and my time in the army, brief as it was, had taught me to distinguish between those officers who had earned their place purely through ability and those who had blue blood running in their veins. Not that their life blood truly looks any different than that of the poorest foot soldier when it's soaking into the sand in a Godforsaken corner of the Empire.

As we settled comfortably into the carriage for the short ride to the Diogenes he caught me watching him and leant closer to murmur, "I shall explain later, Watson, but for now I shall simply catch you up on what Lestrade and I discovered this afternoon."

I cleared my throat self-consciously. "Nonsense, it is none of my business, Holmes. I apologise for staring like some wide-eyed débutante. I am just pleased you chose a traditional means of locomotion instead of one of those hideous steam-powered contraptions."

He raised an eyebrow as if I had just said something unutterably foolish. "I would hardly inflict that on you, Doctor. I know how much you abhor steam machines. I believe the boiler in our bathroom is the closest you have voluntarily come to anything steam-driven since I met you."

I flushed and looked down at my hands, tightly clenched in my lap. "I hadn't realised you had noticed. I know it is foolish, but …"

Holmes' squeezed my arm sharply and waited for me to look up before speaking. "I am neither blind nor deaf, Doctor. I can make a good guess at the source of your fears and I assure you I consider them neither foolish nor unreasonable." He watched me for a moment longer, looking away only when I nodded my appreciation, the lump in my throat robbing me of the ability to respond in any other way.

"Now, about this afternoon..."

I let his voice wash over me, only half listening as he recounted his interview with the dead man's landlady, which confirmed his suspicions that Gregson was barking up the wrong tree and possibly in the wrong forest entirely, as I digested the fact that he knew of my shameful weakness. My fear of steam-driven machinery was utterly irrational, which isn't to say steam machines couldn't be dangerous, but so could guns and I had no problem carrying my service revolver when I felt the occasion called for it. Just the thought of being close to anything large and steam-powered made me break out in a cold sweat and the smell of the smoke from the steam omnibuses in London was enough to cause me to imagine I was back in Maiwand if it caught me unawares.

When the carriage came to a gentle halt in front of the elegant building which housed the Diogenes Club I looked around in surprise. I had been so lost in thought that I hadn't realised we had arrived. Holmes nudged me gently.

"Don't lose focus like that once we're inside. My brother will seek out any weakness and pounce on it. It's in his nature to do so."

"Must be a family trait," I said softly, smiling fondly at him at the same time to soften my words.

"I really have no idea what you mean, Doctor!" Holmes told me, leaping agilely down from the carriage and then waiting for me to follow more carefully.

Lestrade was waiting for us in the tastefully decorated foyer, tapping his foot impatiently. "Apparently your brother wants us all to be shown in at the same time," he told Holmes shortly. "He's going to be worse than you are, isn't he?"

Holmes grinned impishly. "Oh indubitably, my dear Inspector. But I'm sure you'll handle him admirably."

The butler cleared his throat discreetly. "Let me show you to the Strangers' Dining Room gentleman. The member is waiting for you."

We followed him along a corridor and through a door into a wood-panelled dining room. There was only one table set and only one person in the room so I could only presume that this was Mycroft Holmes. He stood to greet us and shook our hands firmly.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Sherlock. Do remember your manners and introduce me to your friends." He smiled a trifle smugly and I felt the urge to defend Holmes. I refrained however, knowing that he wouldn't appreciate me causing a scene, even with so few people to witness it.

"Mycroft," Holmes replied tightly. "May I introduce my colleagues. This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and Doctor John Watson, late of 66th Foot. Watson, Lestrade, my brother Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled a little too warmly at me, but there was nothing I could do about it without seeming rude so I returned his greeting and then gratefully took my seat when he finally gestured for us to do so.

"Come now, Sherlock. It's a little disingenuous to refer to the Doctor as a mere colleague. I know you're sharing rooms with him."

Holmes snorted softly before replying, obviously as irritated with his brother's opening salvo as I was. "A most convenient arrangement for both of us, but I didn't contact you to discuss my living arrangements."

"Business should always wait until after dinner, Sherlock," Mycroft admonished. A bottle of wine appeared on the table in front of us and I though I had managed to repress my startled reaction to the silent reappearance of the footman, but from the looks on all three of my dinner companions' faces I hadn't succeeded. At least Lestrade was trying to pretend he hadn't noticed.

Mycroft poured the wine and the footman left us all with menus to peruse before vanishing again as silently as he had arrived.

"I have some personal business to discuss with you after the meal, Sherlock. Perhaps you should have the carriage take Lestrade and Watson home and I'll send you back when we're finished."

Holmes smiled warmly at his older brother although I could tell it was an act. "Nonsense, Mycroft. Nothing we have to discuss could possibly be time consuming and I'm sure Watson won't mind waiting for us to finish. The chairs at the Diogenes are always comfortable and I'm sure you have the latest copy of the Lancet for him to read while he waits."

Mycroft's expression cooled but it appeared the younger Holmes had won the first round. I couldn't help but wonder what it was he hoped to accomplish by trying to get Lestrade and me to leave, but since Holmes clearly didn't wish to be alone I would happily wait for him.

We ordered our meals before Mycroft made his next move. As Holmes had predicted he focussed on me, although what he expected to gain from such an obvious enquiry and one which, if he was anything like his brother, he already knew the answer to was beyond me.

"I read of the tragic massacre at Maiwand which nearly destroyed your regiment, Doctor. A most distressing turn of events, although I note that you were mentioned in dispatches for your part in the aftermath. I would be fascinated to hear a first hand account of the battle." His expression was politely interested and nothing more. If it hadn't been for Holmes' warnings I would have thought him merely making small talk to pass the time, but I had been told that Mycroft never said anything without a purpose so I suspect he was scrutinising my reaction carefully.

Even knowing that I was being watched I could not remain impassive in response to his enquiry. I tensed and I am certain my complexion paled as his words brought up the memories which I could not hide. I would not give him the satisfaction of a more overt reaction though so I simply took a deep breath pushed the horror away. With a start I realised Holmes had reached out and was resting his hand on my leg, providing silent and unseen support as I fought to keep my composure.

"I do not believe the massacrer of the 66th Foot is appropriate dinner conversation, Mr Holmes, so I am afraid you will have to wait and hear your first hand account some other time." I forced myself to smile politely. "In the light of the case Holmes and Lestrade are currently investigating I am sure they would both prefer a more pleasant topic of conversation rather than discussing more unnecessary bloodshed."

Lestrade, bless the man, picked up on my cue beautifully and nodded. "Indeed, I think we will have enough of tragedy when it is time to discuss our business after the meal." He grinned at me before continuing, "I hear Shaw's team have arrived in Australia safe and well and are hopeful of a victory in their first game."

Despite his normal disinterest in sport, Holmes jumped in with his opinion and we managed to keep the discussion of cricket going almost until the arrival of dessert. All good things must come to an end and we couldn't keep it up forever, especially as I was beginning to suspect there wasn't a cricket fan amongst us.

"Will you be looking for premises large enough to house a practice once you are recovered from your injuries?" Mycroft asked in a lull in the conversation. "I do not believe the rooms in Baker Street would be suited to such."

Holmes tensed almost imperceptibly before jumping in and trying to answer for me. "I'm sure the Doctor could run a practice from our rooms if he wished. I conduct my business from them without any problems."

"No, Holmes, your brother is right. There is no way I could run a traditional medical practice from our rooms. I would need a separate consulting room in which to examine patients rather than simply using the sitting room as you do and what would happen if we both needed to see patients at the same time?" I sipped my wine as I thought how to continue. Mycroft was clearly trying to portray me as a temporary room mate and I found I did not want Holmes to think of me in that way. "I do not know when I will be fit to take up a proper practice but I thought that when I am more myself again I might work at least part-time in the poorer sections of the city. Most of my business would be conducted through house calls I believe. If I ever recover enough to manage an entire practice I would need to find somewhere near to Baker Street to practice from but I believe the idea of separate premises for work and home has merit. The type of emergency that would come up outside of working hours would not need a consulting room so living away from my practice shouldn't be a problem and I believe it would prove much less stressful for all involved."

I smiled politely at Mycroft and continued, "Thank you for your concern about my profession, Mr Holmes, but I do not believe I need it. And it will be a while before I am sure I can reliably run a practice anyway."

Before Mycroft could come up with another gambit, Holmes cleared his throat. "I believe we have all finished eating now, Mycroft, so let us turn to the business we came here to discuss. I am sure Lestrade would appreciate not being kept out too late. I suspect he will have a lot to do tomorrow if we are to find the murderer before he strikes again."

I shall not bore you with the details of the rest of our conversation, suffice to say that Mycroft concurred with his brother's opinion that German anarchists had nothing to do with the murder and I now know far more about the state of anarchism in Europe and its effects in Britain and her dominions especially pertaining to immigrants than I am ever likely to need. I was beginning to wish Holmes had come alone or at least dismissed Lestrade and myself before the topic of anarchism came up instead of waiting until he and Mycroft had talked the topic to death.

When they were finally finished, Mycroft brought up the personal business he had mentioned earlier and would not countenance his brother leaving and handling it in writing, so Lestrade and I were shown back into the foyer, where there were fortunately several comfortable chairs in which to wait, and left to our own devices while the brothers talked.

Once we were alone, Lestrade leant over and murmured, "I think you passed."

"What?" The statement came out of nowhere and I didn't understand what he was talking about.

"This dinner was clearly some kind of test by the elder Holmes to see if he approved of you or not. I think you passed." He grinned. "I wouldn't like to say if that is a good thing or not."

I chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you are right about it being a test, Holmes suggested as much on the way here. I don't know that I passed though. We spent most of the evening assiduously keeping him away from anything approaching a personal question."

"Precisely. I'll wager there aren't many men who have had the nerve or the ability to keep Mycroft Holmes from something he wants and you managed it."

"With rather a lot of help," I pointed out. "For which you have my gratitude by the way. I have no idea how we managed to stay on the topic of cricket for so long. I'm sure it's the longest conversation I've ever had on the topic and I don't think Holmes has ever willingly discussed any kind of sport."

"Probably not, but he did it for you, which is why you passed, no doubt. And I was happy to help, Doctor Watson. Tonight was highly entertaining, even if Holmes did end up being right, as usual." He pulled his coat on and settled his hat firmly on his head. "Tell Holmes I'll call on him sometime tomorrow afternoon to discuss what we intend to do next. Earlier if there are any developments. And do try to make sure he doesn't run off chasing any leads without informing me first. I hate it when he goes off on his own and solves my cases without me." He tipped his hat and made his way to the front door. "Good evening, Doctor Watson."

I nodded my head in reply. "Good evening, Inspector. I shall do my best, but I am no miracle worker and Holmes is a law unto himself."

I could hear him laughing as the butler showed him out.

I envied him his ability to leave. I should have liked to do so myself, but Holmes had seemed remarkably reluctant to be alone with his brother for any length of time so I had kept my wishes to myself and acquiesced to his plan instead, which meant I was now stuck in the foyer until he could escape. If it made him feel more comfortable, however, it would be worth the sacrifice.

*^*^*^*

By the time we reached Baker Street it was late and rather than discuss Mycroft's attempts to discomfort me with Holmes I decided to leave it until the morning. Holmes himself seemed to be lost in thought and had been since we had taken our leave of his brother. I could only assume it had something to do with the personal business that Mycroft had wished to discuss with him.

Unfortunately, the conversation that I had lain awake carefully planning, never happened. Instead we were rudely awakened by a hammering on the door. Or rather Mrs Hudson was rudely awakened and she then returned the favour by waking Holmes and myself.

I pulled my dressing gown on over my pyjamas, hastily located my slippers and made my way into the sitting room where Holmes, attired in a nightshirt and his own dressing gown, and a rather harassed looking Lestrade were waiting for me.

"Ah, Watson, the Inspector was telling me that there has been a second murder. I rather thought there would be," Holmes said breezily.

I rubbed my eyes sleepily. Both during my medical training and my brief military career I had become accustomed to leaping out of bed, instantly ready for action. Since my illness and my return to civilian life I had got out of the habit. It appeared that if I intended to help Holmes on his cases I would have to cultivate the ability again.

"I'm sorry? Another murder? When? Where?" I asked.

Mrs Hudson bustled into the room with a tray of tea things and started laying them out on the table. "Oh, bless you, Mrs Hudson," I thanked her enthusiastically. "Sit down, Inspector and have some tea."

"I need to get back to the murder and take Mr Holmes with me," he said. "I don't believe the crime happened more than an hour ago. If Mr Holmes can find a clue that will put us on the trail of the murderer we might be able to catch him before he has time to slink back under his rock."

Holmes clapped his hands delightedly. "Wonderful, Lestrade. We'll make a detective of you yet. It's a capital plan. I shall be with you as soon as I am dressed." He gestured at me. "Shoo, shoo, Watson. I am sure we will need your medical experience and there is no time to lose. The game is afoot."

I watched as he practically threw himself up the stairs to his room to dress. "I really need that tea," I muttered.

Lestrade laughed and dropped into one of the chairs. "How do you take it? I'll pour you one and it should be cool enough to drink by the time you've finished your ablutions."

"You have my eternal gratitude," I told him. "I take it strong with just a dash of milk. No sugar and now I'd better get ready or he'll never let me hear the end of it." I paused before opening my bedroom door. "Is it easier to deal with a murder when it's not your first time?"

"Normally, I'd say yes. But this one … well, you'll see it when you get there. Mr Holmes will have my hide if I blunt your first impressions by describing the scene to you. You should be prepared though. It's not a pretty one."

I nodded. "Thank you, Inspector. I will be with you in a moment."

As I opened the dresser and started selecting the clothes I would wear I ran my fingers thoughtfully over my stubble. The Inspector had been clean shaven but I did not believe that Holmes would appreciate it if I took the time to shave. The corpse certainly wouldn't care what I looked like. So I decided to forgo all but a quick wash using the basin on my dresser this morning.

I was washed, dressed, and my hair combed, in under ten minutes, but when I emerged from my room Holmes was already pacing the sitting room like a caged tiger.

"At last. I thought you would never be ready. Every second counts, Watson." Holmes threw my new sword-cane at me and I caught it reflexively, which was fortunate as it would have struck me in the face if I had not.

"Let the man drink he tea," Holmes. "I have a Hansom waiting downstairs to take us to the scene. A minute for the Doctor to have his morning tea won't harm anything."

Holmes snorted and stalked across the room to stare out of the window, but I took his lack of argument as acceptance and sank into the chair, taking the cup Lestrade proffered and inhaling the steam as if it were opium. I knew I did not have time to savour the drink and drained my cup in three swallows, wincing as I felt it burning a path along my oesophagus.

"Are we all going to be able to fit into one Hansom?" I asked as I used my cane to help myself stand up.

"I imagine Lestrade has stolen one again and intends to drive it himself," Holmes drawled. "Isn't that right?"

"Even I know how you made that deduction," Lestrade snapped. "You can see the driver-less cab through the window. And I haven't stolen it. I borrowed it, with the owner's permission." He looked at me. "I have no faith in the bone shakers the Yard likes to send the constables out on and they won't carry three people anyway. I've experience with Hansoms and I'd back my driving skills against any of the imbeciles out there on the streets. So, you and Mr Holmes can ride inside in the dry. I'll drive."

"Be sure to hang on tightly, Watson," Holmes told me dryly as we descended the stairs. "Lestrade's skills at the reins tend towards the insane and suicidal."

"I've not crashed yet," Lestrade called out as he pulled himself easily up onto the back. "Get in and stop complaining, Mr Holmes, and I'll have you at the murder scene in no time."

*^*^*^*

Lestrade's description of this second murder scene as 'not pretty' was a master-work of understatement. The location was similar to that of the first scene. It was a poor area, dirty, run down, the kind of area where people don't ask questions and strangers aren't remarked upon. Even from the road where Lestrade had left the cab though I could see that this crime scene was going to be much worse than the first one.

At the first scene the door had been damaged; at this one there was a hole in the wall. I stopped and stared at it and even Holmes paused in shock when he first saw it.

"Sometimes I am unbelievably stupid," he muttered. "Why didn't I see it at once?"

"See what?" Lestrade and I demanded at the same time.

"The killer is using some kind of machine, maybe an automaton of some sort. I wasn't sure if the door at the first location had been damaged during the murder of the damage had already been there but in this case it's clear. The murderer used a machine of some kind to smash his way through the wall." He looked at me. "It explains the evidence you found of the murderer strangling his victim with one hand and then breaking his neck. I said he was inhumanly strong but I failed to realise that that was literally the case."

He ran towards the building. "I can only hope that my oversight has not been the cause of this second death. If we had known we were looking for a machine would we have done things differently?"

By this point Holmes was talking to himself more than to us. Lestrade and I followed him into the building at a slightly more sedate pace. I froze in the doorway and can only assume from the fact that Lestrade did not walk into me that he had been prepared for this reaction on my part. Since he had already seen the murder scene, he probably had been.

The victim lay in a puddle of blood in the middle of the room. It was smeared rather than simply pooled and it was easy to see why as one whole wall of the room had been painted with bloody messages. The victim had suffered much more damage than the first murder. There was a hole in his chest and I truly did not want to get any closer to see what else had been done to him, but I had promised to give Lestrade and Holmes my professional opinion so I steeled myself and crossed the room to examine him. I wanted to kneel by the body as I had done at the first scene but I was hard pressed to find anywhere I could do so without soaking myself in the blood of the victim.

I cleared my throat and tried not to look at the contorted visage of the victim. "Well, cause of death seems to be fairly obvious," I said almost to myself. "Someone has cut his heart out." I felt sick. Even the injuries I had seen in my military career were nothing compared to this. "The would is jagged. I don't know what caused it but it wasn't any kind of sharp bladed weapon or the edges would be smoother." I looked around. "I hate to ask, Lestrade, but you haven't found the heart anywhere, have you?"

The Inspector looked slightly nauseous. "It's actually been removed from the body? That's …" He cleared his throat. "I'll have someone search the building."

I heard someone walking up behind me and then felt a hand on my shoulder. Holmes leant down, resting on me as he examined the body. "I am even more certain now that we are dealing with some kind of automaton. The hole in the wall is approximately human shaped and there are footprints leading from it to the body and between the body and the wall. It appears that our victim, who I believe we will find is Joseph Stangerson, one of Drebber's companions, tried to barricade himself inside the building. His assailant, in the form of some kind of steam-driven automaton, smashed its way through the wall, leaving the hole. It then grabbed him and tore a hole in his chest, removing his heart. Once Stangerson was dead he used the blood to write his message on the wall and then left. There are no footprints leading anywhere else in the building so I fear he may have taken the heart with him."

I shuddered at the picture Holmes' words were painting in my head. I could almost hear the machine's heavy footfalls, the hissing of the machinery as it raised and lowered each hellish foot and the metallic clunk clunk clunk as it closed inexorably upon poor Stangerson. Holmes' hand tightened on my shoulder and I started so violently that I almost lost my balance, only Holmes' grip on my shoulder keeping me upright.

That was when I realised the sounds were not the product of my over-active imagination but were coming from the street outside.

Holmes leant down and grabbed my cane, pushing it into my hand as he pulled me to my feet and to one side of the room. I must have been a dead weight as I was too horrified by the prospect of coming face to face with this terrifying automaton to be able to concentrate on what I was doing.

In hindsight I know that the machine was about 6 feet tall and not much more than half as wide again as a normal human. It approximated the shape of a human as well. But at the time all I could see was a wall of metal and steam.

The machine turned from the middle of the street and faced us through the hole in the wall. One of the constables cried out in shock and I heard Lestrade make some kind of exclamation under his breath, but it sounded like it was coming from people miles away rather than standing less than ten feet away. I knew my breathing was too rapid and that I should be supporting my own weight instead of relying on Holmes to hold me up, but I couldn't seem to make my body cooperate.

Hiss.

I was in the valley in Maiwand facing down the infernal machine that had killed so many of my comrades.

Clank.

The automaton started moving towards us until it was blocking out the light that had been streaming through the hole in the wall.

Crunch.

The rock wall started to crumble as the machines crawled towards us, felling my men in a fusillade of gunfire.

Bang.

The automaton raised its arm and I could see that there was a gun built into the appendage.

Boom.

The home-made explosives smashed against the carapaces of the machines and seemed to do no good. We were all going to die.

Ping.

Bullets ricocheted off the walls and I could hear Lestrade calling for his men to take cover. There was a heavy weight against my back and then I was falling. I hadn't been hit, had I?

Groan.

I was kneeling in the sand, desperately trying to sew up a young corporal's wounds before he bled to death in the dirt and sand.

Rattle.

The automaton turned and slowly made its way away from the house and down the street.

Holmes shook my shoulder. I was lying on the bare floorboards, pressed against the wall, and Holmes had been lying on top of me.

"Watson! Watson, snap out of it!"

I blinked up at Holmes, not sure why he was calling my name in that urgent tone.

"Watson! Damn it, man. Sit up, come on!"

I slowly pushed myself into an upright position and looked around. Lestrade was kneeling by one of the young constables who had been standing against the wall trying not to look at the victim or throw up and was now lying on the floor looking more white than green. There was blood on Lestrade's hands.

I still felt like I was looking at the world through a lace curtain, but the blood got me moving when nothing else could have. I struggled to my feet, leaning heavily on both Holmes and my cane, and limped across the room to where the constable was lying.

"Let me see," I croaked, my voice barely responding to my mental commands.

Lestrade moved back and took his hands away from the handkerchief he had been pressing against the young man's shoulder. I examined it cautiously and then put the handkerchief back.

"I think he was hit with a splinter rather than anything more serious. It's bleeding still but not enough to panic about it. Keep the pressure on it and get him to a hospital so they can remove any debris." I forced myself to smile at the constable, although from the look on his face I hadn't managed to look all that comforting. "You'll live, lad, and you'll probably get a couple of days off as well. Have you got a young lady who can fuss over you?"

He nodded. "Got married just last month."

"Well, then. Let your colleagues get you to a doctor and then go home and let her pamper you for a bit. It'll do you both the world of good."

I stood up again and walked out of the building without a backward glance. Holmes was right behind me. Don't ask how I knew it was him for I couldn't tell you, but I didn't even flinch when I felt one of his hands on my upper arm, guiding me to the side of the house so that I could lean against it.

"Do you remember where you are?" he asked softly.

I stared at him for a moment. "London, somewhere. I wasn't paying attention to our destination."

"No, that's a common affliction for those unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of Lestrade's driving," he said with forced jollity. "You're too busy praying that you won't die to actually look at the scenery as it hurtles past."

"I could just take the Doc home and leave you here." Lestrade's voice came from somewhere behind Holmes and I slowly turned my head, forcing myself to focus on him.

"Don't you need to stay here or take that boy to a hospital or something?" I asked, trying to understand why he was watching me like a wild animal about to bolt. I supposed I had probably done something to embarrass myself in the confrontation with the automaton. It wouldn't have surprised me. I had been so lost in my fear I certainly hadn't been acting like the brave soldier Mycroft had described the previous night. And yet Lestrade didn't seem disgusted with me, just concerned.

"I thought you'd have removed the splinter yourself," he said mildly.

I looked down and held my hand out in front of me. It was trembling slightly.

"Ah," he said. "Well, come on then Mr Holmes. Get the Doctor into the cab and I'll drive the two of you home." He walked past me towards the back of the cab, brushing a hand against my shoulder and softly telling me, "We all have our nightmares, Doctor. No need to be ashamed of them."

*^*^*^*

Lestrade came up to the rooms when we arrived back at Baker Street, but I felt too distracted to be good company and excused myself by claiming that I needed to bathe. Since I had had to cut short my morning ablutions and had then spent the morning kneeling or lying on a dirty floor and been wrist deep in a bloody corpse it was a reasonable excuse and while I don't think either of them believed it was the only reason I wanted to be alone, neither of them made any comment.

As I sank into the warm bathwater I had more reason than one to heave a sigh of relief. From the sitting room, the sounds of a heated argument drifted through the closed bathroom door. It seemed that Lestrade's main reason for coming up had been to have a shouting match with my companion.

I felt guilty as I should be out there trying to keep the peace, not hiding in the bathroom convincing myself that I wasn't the trembling coward I had proved myself to be earlier, but to be brutally honest I was relieved that I didn't have to deal with it.

I sank completely under the water, briefly entertaining the notion of staying there and seeing if it was possible to drown oneself, before sitting back up and slicking my hair back as the water poured off it. Now that I was safely back in our rooms I was feeling more than a little ashamed of my earlier reaction to the machine. It was one thing to still have nightmares about Maiwand and even to have my room mate know about them. After all, I rationalised, one cannot help what one's subconscious chooses to do whilst one is asleep. And even my aversion to steam-driven machinery could be written off as a quirk. But the utter bone-numbing terror, complete with vivid flashbacks, that I had experienced when faced with the automaton was nothing other than cowardice and I had no idea how I would face Holmes and Lestrade now that it was over.

I couldn't hide in the bathroom for ever though and to even try would be yet another sign of cowardice so I hauled myself out of the bath, pulled the plug to drain it and then realised I hadn't brought a change of clothing into the bathroom with me.

The thought of pulling on my dust-covered, and in some places bloody, clothing was abhorrent to me so I dried myself off with one of the large towels and then pulled my robe around me, fastening it tightly. The only place I was comfortable being in such a state of undress usually was my bedroom, but I had no choice so I straightened my spine, opened the bathroom door and headed for my bedroom, hoping that no one would stop me and ask how I was.

I needn't have been concerned. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen, which explained the drop in the noise level emanating from the sitting room, and Holmes was sitting at his desk surrounded by what looked to be the insides of several phonographs.

I didn't ask what he was doing, choosing to go to my room and dress before getting involved in what would no doubt be a long and confusing conversation, Holmes' experience with machinery being far above mine.

Once I was dressed I returned to the sitting room and approached Holmes cautiously. It was always wise to approach him carefully when he was experimenting, lest something explode when you least expected it. Sadly, that was something I had had to learn from experience.

"Holmes?"

He blinked and looked at me, clearly having completely forgotten where he was and what was happening around him so deep was he into his experiment.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"I need a weapon that will be able to disable or at least disrupt the automaton so that Lestrade and I can apprehend the man within it. Assuming that is he isn't busy chasing scotch mist when I finally locate the thing," Holmes told me shortly. "I have the Irregulars trying to locate it or at least to locate Carrick, the third of our American visitors, while Lestrade fruitlessly scours the German areas of London looking for Carrick because in his wisdom he has decided that if two men are dead their colleague must be the killer, when any fool can tell he's to be the final victim."

"That was what the shouting match was about then?" I asked. "A professional disagreement."

"I wouldn't characterise it that way," he muttered. "I would say it was Lestrade being a stubborn fool and refusing to just do as I tell him."

I muffled a chuckle. I'll wager that attitude hadn't gone down well with the Inspector. "He may come to you for advice, Holmes, but he's not required to take it and besides after this morning's encounter I imagine he'd rather be doing something than sitting around waiting for you to find his murderer for him."

"If he wishes me to advise him, then he needs to learn to listen to me and follow simple instructions. The police are merely going to scare our potential victim more than he already is. He's clearly running from something other than the automaton or he and Stangerson would have gone to the police after Drebber's murder. The fact that they didn't clearly shows that they have something to hide and saturating the area with men in uniform is hardly going to make Carrick feel safe. I can only hope that since Lestrade is concentrating on areas with high concentrations of German immigrants he will miss the man altogether and that my Irregulars will have more success." Holmes was soldering two pieces of metal together as he spoke. "And when they find him I will have a weapon to use against him." He bit his lip and carefully joined two wires together. "I hope."

"What precisely is it you're trying to make, Holmes?" I asked. "I can understand why you would need a new kind of weapon – bullets would have simply ricocheted off that horrific creature – but I'm afraid my knowledge of this kind of technology is practically nil and I cannot fathom what you are doing."

"I am not surprised you don't recognise this device. I am in effect creating something entirely new. I hope it will emit some kind of electrical charge when fired. That should interrupt the electrical signals that tell the automaton's limbs to move and should immobilise it for a short time." He held up a hand. "Do not ask me how long as there is no way to tell without testing it and since we don't have an automaton lying around that I can demonstrate it on I won't know how effective it is until I have used it on our foe."

"Great," I muttered. "I love going into battle with untried weapons that may or may not function as they are supposed to. It's truly my favourite thing in the entire world."

Holmes looked at me sharply. "Since I will be the one going into battle with this weapon, not you, there really is nothing for you to worry about, Watson."

I pulled myself up straighter. "Even if I were of a mind to allow you to tackle this diabolical creature alone, how would that eliminate any need for worry? Do you truly feel that your safety is not something I should be concerned about?"

Holmes, as usual, ignored the more important part of what I was saying and focussed on what he wanted to. "You are not coming with me, Watson. I already knew you had an aversion to steam-driven machinery of even the most innocuous kind, but after this morning I will not subject you to another encounter with the automaton. You were barely aware of where we were so lost in your memories were you and I will not put you through that a second time."

I gritted my teeth. I would not allow Holmes to pander to my weakness in this manner, especially when it meant he would be risking his life alone. "I realise I was weak this morning," I started.

Holmes interrupted me angrily. "You were not weak. You survived something that many men could not have at Maiwand and like my brother I have read a full account of that battle and your role in it so please end this pretence of cowardice. You are naturally uncomfortable around anything that reminds you of that harrowing experience and I do not wish to give you another set of nightmares to add to the ones you already suffer."

"It is no pretence," I admitted, forcing myself not to turn away from what I was sure would soon become either a pitying or condemning expression from my companion. "I do not know what you would call this morning's behaviour if not cowardice."

"Courage," Holmes said quietly. "By God, Watson, you are the bravest man I know and I will not listen to you diminish yourself like this. Any man would have felt fear in the face of that terrifying creation this morning. I did and I am sure Lestrade would admit that he did as well. Your fear is understandably magnified by your past encounters with machines like that. But you didn't run and when the constable needed you, you pushed down your own feelings and did what was necessary and I have no doubt that had his condition been more serious and needed immediate treatment you would have overcome your physical reaction and operated with steady hands, because that is the kind of man you are."

I flushed and looked away, moved by the emotion behind Holmes' words. "Nevertheless, the point I was trying to make is that I shall be coming with you when you face the monster. I will not allow you to do it alone. So you had best finish your weapon and show me how to use it or I might shoot you with it by accident."

"I would try to discourage you, but I see that your mind is set on the matter," Holmes told me. "No one would think the less of you if you chose not to come, but if you want to then I shall not attempt to dissuade you, but you are just confirming my opinion of your courage, my dear Doctor."

"I cannot forever hide from my fears, Holmes. I must confront them at some point and I'll not cower in our rooms while you face this danger alone," I declared, reaching out to squeeze his upper arm. "Now finish your weapon and show me how it works."

*^*^*^*

In the end it was three days before we get any reliable information on where the automaton was and by that time Lestrade had heard back from the police in Cincinnati and been forced to admit that, yet again, Holmes was right. Carrick wasn't our killer.

Our murderer was almost certainly an alchemist and engineer called Jefferson Hope. Hope's wife had been rescued as a young child from a wagon train that had become disoriented in a snow storm. She and a man called John Ferrier had been the only survivors and when they had been rescued he had raised her as his own. They and their rescuers had lived in a remote community on the frontier with very few women. Because of this Lucy Ferrier had been in great demand as she grew towards adulthood and Drebber, Stangerson, and Carrick had been the three men most in contention for her hand in marriage.

Lucy Ferrier had had different ideas and had instead chosen to marry a man not from their community. Jefferson Hope had been making his living by travelling the frontier selling and repairing machines for the settlers and by all accounts it had been love at first sight between him and Lucy. John Ferrier adored his adopted daughter and was willing to do whatever it took to make her happy and so had willingly given his blessing to the union, greatly angering her three suitors.

Hope and Lucy had married in the small church in the outpost where she had grown up and she had remained there with her father while Hope tried to make enough money to take her to his home town back east where they planned to live and raise a family.

When Hope returned to the settlement, John Ferrier was dead and Lucy was missing. His enquiries had led him to a shack in the middle of nowhere and the body of his wife who had been ravished and then strangled before being left on the dirt floor without even the courtesy of a proper burial.

He buried her, took her wedding ring, and then set off in pursuit of the three men he believed had kidnapped and defiled his wife. Before he could catch up with them he had become ill and after extensive tests the doctors had diagnosed him with a degenerative condition that would first destroy his fine motor skills and then slowly remove the gross skills such as walking or using his arms. Eventually even the muscles involved in respiration would cease to respond and he would die.

He had constructed a metal shell that would replace the functions of his body and would allow him to continue his pursuit of the killers despite his physical infirmities and that was what was now rampaging through London. Hope, in his automaton body, had followed the three men from the frontier to Cincinnati and then across the continent, eventually crossing the ocean in pursuit and had cornered them in London. Now two of them were dead and he would not rest until the third had joined them.

Finally, after three days of seemingly interminable waiting, the Irregulars tracked down our murderer. We had, through their information, managed to track the automaton to a certain area of London, down by the docks, but we hadn't managed to find a specific enough location to actually confront him. On the third day he emerged from hiding and even in an area of London that isn't friendly to the police you can't keep a six foot tall automaton marching down the middle of a road a secret from the authorities. So now we knew where he was and the fact he was on the move suggested that he'd located his quarry. The only question was whether we would be able to corner him before he got his metallic hands on Carrick.

Holmes snatched up his weapon, scribbled a message for Lestrade, which he gave to one of the Irregulars to be delivered, and ran down the stairs like a man possessed. I followed behind, necessarily at a more cautious pace, and by the time I had emerged into the open air he had already flagged down a Hansom for us and was climbing in.

I had barely managed to seat myself and close the door before we were off, racing through the streets of London at a reckless pace that made me nostalgic for Lestrade's break-neck driving.

Holmes grabbed my arm and grinned maniacally at me. "This is it, Watson. This is the day we bring Jefferson Hope to justice."

'Or die in the attempt,' I thought morosely, but I kept my observations to myself. Already I could feel myself shutting down, a curtain coming down between me and the rest of the world, as I contemplated coming face to face with the automaton for the second time. Perhaps Holmes had been right. Perhaps I should have remained at Baker Street rather than risk my fear endangering Holmes if I froze a second time.

Suddenly Holmes banged on the side of the cab and it careened to a halt. He leapt out and began to run along an alleyway and I scrambled to follow him. I hoped that he had paid the driver before we started or we were never going to be able to hire another cab in this town.

Dashing from alleyway to alleyway Holmes made his way to the place where the automaton had last been sighted, making use of every short cut he could conjure. He knew the city like the back of his hand and would never be lost. I, on the other hand, had no idea where the hell we were and it was only by luck that I managed to keep Holmes' lithe form in sight as he sprinted through the narrow streets, easily dodging people, animals, and other obstacles along the way. I wished I could move like that and maybe, with luck, one day I would be able to, but for now I limped along behind him, ignoring the pain in my leg, and praying that he would not vanish and leave me wandering aimlessly as I tried to find him again.

Holmes skidded around a corner and almost immediately there was a horrendous smashing sound. I hurried after him, fearing what I would see as I turned the corner and emerged onto a wider street at last.

Despite the hour the crowds that you would expect to see on the streets in this area were nowhere to be seen, and I could not blame them. The automaton was standing in the middle of the street, swinging an uprooted gaslight as if it were a quarterstaff. At that moment I envied the residents their ability to run and hide. I could not think of many places I would like to be less than where I was.

There was a body lying, crumpled, in the street at his feet, which I could only hope was that of Carrick. While I did not believe that Hope's solution to his problems was in any way the right one, I certainly didn't intend to grieve for a kidnapper, rapist, and murderer.

Holmes was, as usual, right in the middle of things, facing off against the automaton and using every iota of his boxing talent to duck and dodge as Hope swept the gaslight around again and again in a deadly arc which would surely decapitate anyone foolish enough to get in its way.

At first I couldn't fathom why he wasn't using the weapon he had so painstakingly created, but then I saw it lying in the street just out of his reach. I knew what I had to do. I needed to help him and either grab the weapon myself or distract the automaton so that Holmes could get to it, but I couldn't move.

The sound and sight and smell of the machine had sent me right back into my nightmares of Maiwand and I do not think anything on earth could have made me move right then. I could smell the smoke as the steam-driven automaton hissed and puffed and in my mind I smelt the infernal machines of the tribes on the north-western frontier, the machines we had sold them before they had changed their allegiances. I fancied that I could fee the earth shaking beneath my feet as I saw them rumbling towards me, only this time I wasn't standing in a dusty valley with the remnants of my regiment; I was on a city street in London.

I could not separate reality from nightmare and I believed I saw them, crushing buildings as they came towards me. I sank to the ground, clinging to the side of the building, closing my eyes in an effort to shut out the visions, but it did no good. The images of death and destruction continued to unroll on the inside of my eyelids, almost like one of the new, magical, moving pictures that I had seen advertised.

The crashes and clanks from the automaton only added to the soundtrack of my nightmare and I fumbled for a gun that wasn't there on a uniform belt that I wasn't wearing. Not that I think I could have fired a gun even if I had one for my hands were shaking too badly.

A cry from the street jerked me out of the nightmare in my mind and back into the real life one unfurling in front of me. Holmes had fallen or more likely been knocked to the ground and was lying there, stunned, clearly trying to gather his wits, but he was no longer alone. Lestrade and one of his constables were there.

Lestrade grabbed a length of wood and smashed the automaton over the back of the head with it. It made no difference to Hope, but it did change his target from Holmes to Lestrade. I grabbed the wall with one hand and my cane with the other and forced myself to my feet. My legs felt like jelly, but I could not stand and watch as this monster killed my friends. I only hoped that Lestrade could hold its attention without getting himself killed for long enough for me to reach the weapon.

Holmes had still not regained his feet and I was concerned that he might be seriously injured. I had not seen the blow that had felled him and if he had been hit with the gaslight he might need immediate medical aid and any delay could be fatal.

Leaning heavily on my cane, I limped across the street. My throat had closed up and my breathing was far too fast. I feared that I would pass out before I could do anything to aid my companions. The young constable who had arrived with Lestrade was cowering in a doorway as the Inspector shouted insults at the imposing automaton and ducked yet another swing from the gaslight. It was quite the most insane thing I had ever seen anyone do, but it was working. Hope was so fixated on the infuriated policeman that he hadn't even glanced in my direction. I had no doubt that he was utterly unaware of my presence.

Cautiously, I picked up the weapon and pointed it at the automaton, hesitating, unsure if I was supposed to shout a warning or something. I wasn't in the army any more and this wasn't a war zone, no matter how much it presently resembled one.

The automaton swung again and Lestrade had to throw himself to the ground or be struck in the abdomen by the heavy, metal pole. Now that he was down, the Hope started to turn back towards Holmes, who had managed to pull himself into a kneeling position by now and was looking at me in horror.

"Don't just stand there, shoot him!" he shouted.

Hope spun around to face me at Holmes' exclamation and I realised that once again I was face to face with a steam-driven creature operated by someone who wanted nothing more than to kill me. My hands began to shake again and I swear I felt the blood draining from my face, even though the thundering pounding of my pulse in my ears suggested no such thing was happening.

"Watson!" Holmes shouted again, his voice hoarse with what could have been fear if I did not believe that Holmes was utterly fearless.

I realised that in the few seconds that I had been frozen to the spot the automaton had moved even closer to me and it had raised it's weapon once again. Behind it I could see Lestrade trying to get into a position from which he could mount another assault to distract if from me and I knew that if he did so and was injured or worse killed I would never forgive myself for it. Before he could make his attack I raised the weapon again and fired, hoping that Holmes really was always right and that this weapon truly could disable Hope long enough for us to dismantle the metal shell and get at the man inside.

There was a loud crackle and a flash of blue lightning and the automaton froze, its arms locked in position over its head, the gaslight still clutched in them and poised to strike. A shower of sparks sprayed from its chest and the whole machine shuddered and then collapsed backwards, nearly flattening Lestrade, who only saved himself from being crushed by desperately hurling himself to one side.

Holmes scrabbled across the distance between himself and the fallen monster on his hands and knees and fumbled at its neck, trying to remove the head. I staggered over to join him, wanting to make very sure that the automaton was not going to clatter back into life.

The head of the great machine was a kind of helmet, open at the front, as it would no doubt need to be for Hope to be able to ear and drink, and I looked into the eyes of the man who had just been trying to kill me and recognised a sight I had seen far too many times before in my career as a doctor.

"Holmes, he's dying."

I reached in and managed to find the carotid artery, trying to measure the man's pulse as the life seemed to fade from his eyes. As I counted the beats they stuttered and skipped and eventually they ceased altogether.

Looking up, I caught Lestrade's eye and shook my head. Jefferson Hope was dead. I slumped back to the ground, sitting on the damp street and resting my back against the automaton which had caused me such nightmares. Unmoving and lifeless it seemed less like one of my nightmares and more like a broken child's toy.

"Tell me, Holmes," I enquired hoarsely. "Are all your cases this exciting or did I just get lucky?"

"Most of them are deadly dull, to be honest, my dear Doctor. This one had everything though, the thrill of the chase, a fiendish enemy, a tragic past... Absolutely fascinating." He twisted from where he was leaning against the other side of the machine. "You should write about this for your magazines instead of the foolish military stories you normally submit. Heroic soldiers are ten a penny, but stories of insightful consulting detectives, those would really thrill your audience. You'd no doubt have to romanticise things a little, but I think your over-active imagination should be up to the task. It could be a brilliant new career for you."

I stared at him open-mouthed, unsure exactly how to reply to his suggestion, although I expected the response would require quite a lot of language unfit for publication.

My thoughts were interrupted by a throaty chuckle coming from the far side of the street. Lestrade limped over to where we were slumped against the machine and dropped down to sit next to us, laughing so hard he was having trouble staying upright.

He clapped me lightly on the shoulder and leaned closer. "You have to admit, Doctor, that life with Sherlock Holmes is never going to be boring."


End file.
